


How It Was S'posed to Be

by BethGreeneDixon (lilyleesh9)



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Violence, bethyl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:25:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyleesh9/pseuds/BethGreeneDixon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hadn’t stopped running since the prison had fallen. There were walkers everywhere, but the further away they got from the place, the fewer they ran into. Daryl led Beth through the trees, stopping only to fight off any walkers that came too close. Neither of them knew where they were going. They just kept running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

**Author's Note:**

> In our opening chapter, we follow Beth and Daryl away from the battle at the prison. 
> 
> This chapter is written from **Daryl's POV**.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

They hadn’t stopped running since the prison had fallen. There were walkers everywhere, but the further away they got from the place, the fewer they ran into. Daryl led Beth through the trees, stopping only to fight off any walkers that came too close. Neither of them knew where they were going. They just kept running.

They finally made it to a clearing with some high grass and weeds. No walkers. They kept running until they came to a patch of particularly high weeds and bushes and collapsed onto their backs under the cover of the branches. 

Daryl gasped, trying to keep his breathing quiet, but it was impossible. His breath came in jagged, heaping gusts. The harder he struggled to keep quiet, the more his lungs ached in protest. After a few moments, he realized he was looking up at about a dozen turkey vultures circling directly overhead.

Still breathing heavily but able to speak now, he rolled his head sideways to look at Beth.

“Come on,” he coughed, getting to his feet, “we gotta go.”

She propped herself up on her elbows, panting and looking around anxiously in every direction. Daryl offered her his hand and she grasped it in her own. When she had gotten to her knees, Daryl let go and turned around, holding his crossbow ready and scanning the woods around them. Beth started to dust herself off but Daryl started walking towards the trees as soon as she was on her feet. Daryl heard her agitated sigh, her hurried footsteps to catch up.

They walked on in silence, Daryl in the lead, Beth trailing behind. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking, but it couldn’t have been longer than an hour. They finally stopped when it was nearing nightfall.

“Here’s fine,” Daryl grunted. Beth plopped down on the ground without a word. She looked around her, grabbing up twigs and branches that were within her reach. Daryl glanced at her, then walked about twenty feet out and slowly walked a radius around where she sat, scanning the trees for any sign of a threat. After about a minute, he determined they were as safe as they were going to be.

He stalked back to where Beth sat gathering sticks together. He set his crossbow against a large log and began grabbing branches and setting them near Beth’s pile of twigs. Soon they had enough to start a fire and he got to work.

When the fire was lit, he sat down against the log next to his crossbow. Beth seated herself on the opposite side of the fire, hugging her knees to her chest. They sat in silence all night, every once in a while one of them shifting to a new position. Daryl fixed his gaze on the fire, but every so often, out of the corner of his eye, he would see Beth looking at him.

After a while, he glanced over at her to check if she was awake. She was lying down on her side, her back to the fire, but he knew she wasn’t asleep. Her body was too stiff, and he could see her fist clenched around her knife in its holster. After a few seconds—or was it minutes?—he realized he was staring at her ass.

His eyes darted back to the fire. He supposed he should feel guilty, but he didn’t. It was harmless. Of course they were gonna notice that kind of thing about each other. He was a guy, she was a girl. Force of nature.

His mind was suddenly back at the prison. It had all happened so fast, out of nowhere. And it was his fault. He had told Michonne to let it go, to stop looking for the Governor. He could have stopped this. He could have helped her keep looking. He should’ve done something.

“We should do somethin’,” Beth said suddenly, as though reading his mind. He looked up at her, now sitting up and facing him. “We aren’t the only survivors.” 

Her voice was frantically optimistic, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

“We can’t be,” she went on. “Rick. Michonne. They could be out here.”

Daryl glared at Beth, inwardly bristling at her optimism. Why’d she always have to be so damn upbeat? Didn’t she realize what had been going on around her?

“Maggie and Glenn could have made it out of A-Block,” she continued.

Daryl turned his gaze back to the fire. He couldn’t see how anyone could still be alive after that. He still couldn’t figure how he and Beth were still alive.

“They _could’ve!_ You’re a tracker. You can track.” Beth jumped suddenly to her feet and marched towards Daryl. His eyes didn’t leave the fire. “Come on! Sun will be up soon, if we head out now we can...” Her voice trailed away as he stared resolutely into the flames.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean towards him as she spat, “Fine!” She walked around the fire and grabbed her knife that was stuck by it’s point into the ground. “If you won’t track, I _will!_ ” She flashed Daryl a look of contempt, then turned on her heel and marched off into the dark woods.

Daryl watched her retreat into the darkness, then looked back at the fire. _This is bullshit_ , he thought to himself. Of all the people he could have gotten stuck with, he got landed with Beth. _Girl’s gonna get me killed_.

He knew he couldn’t let her wander around the wilderness on her own, and he didn’t have anything else to do anyway. He got to his feet, kicked dirt into the fire, putting it out, then grabbed his crossbow and followed in the direction Beth had gone.

It didn’t take him long to find her. The sun had come up now, and in the eerie early-morning light, Daryl noticed a set of footprints. He knelt to the ground and moved some leaves to better see the prints. He heard Beth approach from behind and stop, leaning over his shoulder.

“Could be Luke’s. Or Molly’s. Whoever they are, it means they’re alive.” 

“Nah,” he said, examining the tracks. “This means they were alive four or five hours ago.”

He could feel Beth glaring at him but he didn’t look at her.

“They’re _alive_ ,” she huffed, and she stomped away from him, fuming.

He followed her for a little over an hour, wandering through the trees. They eventually came to a path in the woods and Beth turned onto it and followed it, Daryl close behind. Not far along the path, Daryl noticed a berry bush, at the base of which lay some berries that had been picked and dropped on the ground. Some were smashed, like they had been stepped on.

“They picked up the pace right here,” Daryl grunted, pointing to the berries on the ground.

Beth wheeled around to see.

“Got out in a hurry,” he continued, still examining the scene. “Things went bad.”

“Wouldn’t kill ya to have a little faith,” she sniped, walking towards another berry bush on the other side of the path.

“Faith,” he scoffed, looking out over the bushes, facing away from Beth. “Faith ain’t done shit for us. Sure as hell didn’t do nothin’ for your father.”

He heard her stop walking and he turned to look at her, meeting her eyes. Her face was indignant, shocked. He immediately wanted to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat and he turned away, ashamed.

He heard her stow her knife it its holster and he looked back at her. She had started picking berries.

“They’ll be hungry when we find them,” she said, just a hint of bitterness in her voice.

Wanting to make reparations for his comment, he reached in his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, shaking the dust from it. He reached out and tapped her on the shoulder with the cloth, hoping she would recognize the wordless apology. He expected her to dry her eyes with it, but she grabbed it and shoved the berries into the open cloth, folding the corners over each other. 

He stared at her for a moment, then turned around and walked across the path and through the brush, his crossbow raised. He turned to signal to her that they should keep moving, but when he looked back at her, she was already trudging through the weeds behind him. With Beth on his tail, Daryl pressed on into the woods.

They walked on in the cover of the trees for another hour or so until they came upon two dead walkers lying on the forest floor. Daryl looked to the left and saw blood—bright red blood, human blood—on a sapling next to the bodies. He reached out and touched the leaves, pulling the branch closer to him, wanting to be sure.

“What?” Beth asked, and he could hear that she was trying not to sound afraid.

“That ain’t walker blood.” He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see the fear in her eyes.

Before he could decide what to do next, Beth stalked away past the walkers.

“Trail keeps goin’,” she said. “They fought ‘em off,” she added hopefully.

“Nah,” Daryl said, “there are walker tracks all up and down here. At least a dozen of ‘em.”

A branch snapped somewhere in the woods, and Daryl readied his crossbow, looking around for the source of the sound. Beth had her knife out, standing still and listening.

A walker suddenly emerged from the brush beside Beth and grabbed ahold of her, snarling and drooling. Startled by its sudden appearance, Beth froze, helpless in its grip. Daryl raised his bow but he couldn’t get a clear shot. He dropped the bow on the ground and reached for a knife on his belt, but there was none. He lunged at the creature and grabbed it by the shirt, yanking it away from Beth and hurling it to the ground, keeping a hold on the folds of filthy cloth. Glancing sideways, he saw Beth grab her knife that had fallen to the ground in the struggle. Their eyes met, Daryl nodded, and they each knew what had to happen next.

Daryl rolled onto his back, holding the walker up above his body, and Beth charged forward, plunging the knife into its skull.

Daryl shoved the thing off of him and scooted away hurriedly, looking to make sure it was really finished. Satisfied that it was fully dead, he looked up at Beth and nodded his thanks, getting to his feet. He exhaled heavily, picked up his bow, and stepped back over the walkers.

“Come on,” he grunted, and Beth followed him away from the bodies.

They walked through the woods in silence for about two and a half hours, Daryl leading the way, Beth trailing behind. Every once in a while, he had the feeling Beth was going to try and talk to him. When this happened, he would pick up his pace so that he could pretend not to hear anything she might say. He didn’t want to chat. He didn’t want to pretend like this was all just a good ol’ walk in the woods. 

They eventually came to a set of train tracks. As soon as they stepped out from the trees, Daryl heard the growling. They looked to their left and saw three walkers kneeling on the ground and eating the flesh from several dead bodies.

Daryl raised his bow and aimed at the one closest to them. The bolt went straight through it’s temples. Immediately, he put down the second one. With only one walker left and not wanting to waste a fresh arrow, he set his bow down next to Beth. He walked down to the bodies, pulled the arrow from the first walker’s head, and snuck up behind the last one. He grabbed it by the back of its head and sunk the arrow into its skull, then pulled it back out. The walker dropped to the ground. Stopping to pull the arrow from the second walker’s head, Daryl picked up his crossbow and continued along the tracks.

He stopped when he heard Beth crying. Turning back to look at her, he saw her shaking and sobbing uncontrollably as she looked down at the carnage. He watched her for a few moments, wishing she would stop crying and just get going. He inclined his head, indicating that they should keep moving, hoping that she saw him but knowing that she hadn’t. He took a few steps along the tracks, hoping she would follow. When she didn’t, he stopped, hanging his head. He didn’t want to go any further until he knew she was following him. Beth’s sobs still piercing the otherwise silent day, Daryl turned his head to see Beth standing right where he’d left her, still shaking and weeping, apparently unable to take her eyes from the horror in front of her.

Daryl turned the rest of the way to face Beth and called out her name. She didn’t seem to hear.

“Beth,” he called again, trying to be clearer but not any louder, not wanting to alert any more walkers that might be nearby. She didn’t give any indication that she had heard him.

He sighed and walked back toward where she stood. When he was finally about a yard away from her, he reached out his arm and offered her his hand. She looked up at him, tears streaking little peach-colored tracks into the dirt on her cheeks.

“Come on,” he whispered. She looked down at his hand but didn’t take it. He half-hoped she wouldn’t.

“Beth,” he said, more softly still, “we gotta go.”

She looked up into his eyes, and there was something there he couldn’t quite name. Anger? She looked like she was sizing him up. He felt her hand slide into his, and as soon as her fingers closed around the edge of his palm, he turned back toward the tracks, leading her away from the bodies.

When they had crossed the tracks and entered the woods again, he let go of her hand. He could feel her fingers tighten around his hand as he did so; she didn’t want him to let go. But he couldn’t bear being so close to her any longer. It made his stomach churn, made him feel anxious.

He couldn't remember ever feeling that way before in his life. And he wasn’t sure yet whether or not he liked it.


	2. Alert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stood and watched him walk away for a few seconds, wondering what he would do if she just stayed there, didn’t follow him. Would he leave her behind? She knew that he didn’t want to be with her, that he would much rather be with Michonne or Carol. They were the _real_ survivors, not like her. She was just more baggage to him, one more thing to have to look after. In spite of herself, she hitched the little trash bag into a more secure grip and followed after Daryl, wondering if it was worth her time to try and convince him she was worth his.
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter has portions from both **Daryl's POV** and **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

Daryl marched on ahead of Beth. He could hear her sniffling and whimpering quietly behind him for at least the next hour. He wished she would stop. He didn’t have the slightest clue what to do to comfort a woman.

After trekking through the woods for a few hours, they finally stopped to rest in the late afternoon. Daryl figured they had another three hours or so of sunlight left. Before long, they would need to find a safe place to make camp.

 _Safe_. He snorted at the thought. There was nowhere in the world that was safe anymore.

Beth had stopped crying by now. He glanced over at her. She was sitting on a log, looking at the ground, her head tilted to the side. She looked so pitiful.

Should he say something? _Like what?_ he answered himself. He had no idea what she was thinking, and no idea what to do about it even if he had known.

They sat for about twenty minutes, rubbing their calves and glancing nervously around the woods. Daryl tried to think of something to say to Beth, but with every thought, he chastised himself back and forth, first for not knowing one comforting thing to say, and second for caring about it in the first place. 

Irritated, he grabbed his bow and walked a few paces away from Beth. He stood staring out into the trees. He imagined it might look peaceful to someone else, in some long-forgotten time. He tried to envision what it would be like if he was out here because he wanted to be, not worrying about survival. But he couldn’t remember a time that he’d done anything because he’d wanted to; everything was always what _had_ to be done.

“What is it?” Beth whispered suddenly from behind Daryl.

He turned and saw her standing a few feet behind him with her knife out, eyes wide and alert.

“Nothin’,” he mumbled, turning back towards the would-be peaceful scene. “Just lookin’.” They had rested long enough.

“Come on,” he murmured, “let’s get goin’.”

He heard Beth stow her knife and follow him, and they pressed on in search of shelter.

Daryl hoped they would find a building by the time the sun went down, but they had no such luck. As the sun was setting, Daryl stopped walking and scanned the woods around him, settling for the cover of some small trees that grew closer together. Noticing no threats, he set his crossbow down against a tree trunk and began gathering logs for a fire.

Mirroring Daryl, Beth crouched and began picking up twigs and small sticks. After a short while, they had enough for a small fire. Daryl got the fire started, and Beth took out a small green book from her back pocket and tore a few pages from it, adding them to the flames.

Like the previous night, they sat across from each other, silently staring into the fire. No more than an hour had passed when Daryl saw Beth lie down on her side facing the fire. He figured it was good for her to try and get some sleep, but now he would have to be sure to stay alert. A few minutes later however, he caught himself staring at the curve of her hips. His eyes darted nervously to her face, but her eyes were closed.

 _Alert_ , he reminded himself, determinedly looking anywhere but at her body. But after a few awkward minutes of bouncing his eyes from fire to forest and back again, he allowed himself another glance at Beth.

Despite himself, he let his eyes and mind wander, every once in a while returning his attention to the sounds of the night around him.

* * *

Beth saw Daryl staring at her waist, but she closed her eyes just in time as he suddenly shifted his gaze to her face. Not wanting him to know she was awake, she fought back a smile and kept her breathing as steady and natural as she could.

Sooner than she would have liked, she felt the urge to smile fade. Every so often, a twig would snap or some leaves would rustle, and she would hear Daryl shift, and she imagined he was turning to locate the source of the sound.

Even in her alertness though, her exhaustion eventually took her, and she drifted to sleep.

* * *

Beth was suddenly being shaken awake. She vaguely registered a large, strong hand firmly grasping her shoulder and wondered what the hell was going on. Her eyes shot open, but before she could comprehend what she saw, she felt a finger lightly touch her lips.

Daryl had woken her. She stared up at him towering over her, his crossbow in one hand, the other extended to help her up off the ground.

She could hear the faint sound of a walker gurgling and stumbling somewhere out in the darkness and realized this was why she had been awoken so brusquely. Her senses zoomed to their fullest awareness as adrenaline readied her for the flight. She could hear more than one walker now, and she knew they would have to run for it rather than try fighting off a herd in the darkness.

She grabbed Daryl’s outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet. She expected him to let go and lead the way, but he held onto her hand as he stamped out the fire, then pulled her into the darkness.

They ran as fast as their legs would let them, dodging trees and bushes, their hands clasped tight. They suddenly emerged from the trees and Daryl slammed against something solid, finally letting go of Beth’s hand as he braced himself against the object. In the full moon, Beth could see it was an abandoned car on the side of the road.

Daryl quickly rounded to the other side of the car, his crossbow raised. As he stood guard, Beth made her way around to the open door on the driver’s side and sat down. She tried the ignition but it wouldn’t take. She looked at Daryl and her eyes widened in terror as she saw the trees moving on the other side of the road. They were surrounded.

Daryl whipped around and locked eyes with Beth. He stepped over a body on his way to the rear of the car, motioned to Beth in a “come here” gesture, and hoisted the trunk open. Beth jumped up from the driver’s seat, hurried to the trunk and climbed inside. Daryl glanced quickly around and watched the trees while Beth got settled to one side, then he climbed in himself and lowered the hood almost all the way shut, raising his free hand to his lips in a “hush” gesture as he did so. Instead of locking it closed, he took out a bandana from his pocket and tied it hurriedly around the hook that would have locked into place if closed completely.

Daryl finished the knot and sat back, not a moment too soon. As he got situated into position and raised his bow, the growls immediately grew louder. There could have been dozens of them. Daryl had his bow aimed at the crack between the hood and the bumper, his eyes fixed on the opening. They couldn’t know yet if any of them had seen them go into the trunk. If they had, it was only a matter of time before they tried to get inside.

Horror-struck, Beth watched the shadows moving across the sliver of moonlight shining on the bumper as the groans grew louder and seemed to come closer. The car began to shake and creak as the herd banged against the car. They didn’t seem to be trying to get inside, just bumping into it. Nevertheless, Beth clutched her knife and kept her eyes locked onto the small space between bumper and hood.

The passing herd must have been enormous. For a whole hour, the moaning and snarling persisted, never dying away. If anything, it only got louder and closer. A storm had picked up, and they could hear thunder amidst the groaning and shuffling of the herd. Beth looked over at Daryl. He was still staring fixedly at the gap, his bow raised and ready. At one point, the hood rattled up and down under the weight of a walker. Beth looked at Daryl and raised her knife. He must have seen her out of the corner of his eye because he raised a hand from his bow in a “hold on” signal and nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the gap. Her eyes darted back to the hood and she nodded quickly. She knew he wasn’t looking at her, but the gesture seemed to steady herself.

The horrible noises of the herd finally started to fade after another hour. Beth could feel a cramp tightening in her thigh. She shifted slightly, relieving the tension only minimally. Still, it was better than it had been. The cramp must have been the last thing keeping her awake after the noise quieted down because before she knew it, her eyes were drooping and her head felt heavy. She wanted so badly to sleep for just a few minutes. She wasn’t sure if she should let herself risk it...

    The sun was high in the sky above the farm. Beth was walking in the field out past the barn, looking for flowers to put in the vase on the kitchen table. She stopped and knelt to the ground when she saw a bunch of pretty yellow daisies. 
     _Momma likes daisies_ , she thought to herself, as she began picking the prettiest of the flowers for her bouquet. 
    “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” a voice said, and she looked up to see Daryl Dixon striding toward her. He was wearing his vest but no shirt underneath. Beth liked seeing his body and she wanted to touch it. 
    She stood up and walked over to him, placing her hands on his chest while he rested his on her hips. 
    ”Can you kiss me now?” she said, looking up at his lips. 
    ”I want to,” he said, his hands sliding up her waist. 
    ”Then why doncha?” she teased. 
    ”Because o’ yer dad,” he replied cryptically, now looking out over Beth’s shoulder. 
    Beth turned around and saw her father, kneeling out in the middle of the field, the sky now grey and foreboding. A man with an eyepatch stood next to him holding a long, silver sword. 
    ”No! Please, don’t!” Beth tried to yell, but her voice was gone. 
    The Governor raised the sword high in the air, then brought it swishing down against her father’s neck, severing head from body with one fell swoop. Beth tried to run to her daddy, but Daryl was holding her arm. She turned to tell him to let go and saw a walker holding onto her, its ugly face inches from hers, its mouth open wide, about to sink its teeth into her bare arm! 

Beth’s eyes flew open, her heart pounding. It took her a few moments to realize that she wasn’t in any immediate danger. Sunlight was filling the trunk of the car through the gap between the hood and the bumper. No walker sounds. She looked over at Daryl. She couldn’t tell whether he had slept at all, but she guessed that he hadn’t; he was still poised as he was before she fell asleep, aiming his crossbow through the gap, his eyes fixed and alert.

Beth wiped her forehead and leaned forward to untie the bandana. The trunk swung open with a little push and sunlight washed over them. They both squinted in the suddenly bright light as they crawled slowly from the trunk, stretching.

They both stood for a minute, getting their bearings again. Daryl leaned over with his hands on his knees and stared at the ground between his feet. Beth stowed her knife and put her hands behind her back, leaning back onto them with a satisfying series of cracks.

As soon as they were each done stretching, they got to work scavenging what they could from the wreckage of the abandoned car. Beth knew the drill; plastic bottles, metal wiring, shattered glass from the side mirrors and headlights—anything they could use.

Beth tied up her little, white garbage bag full of miscellany and looked up to see Daryl stuffing a hubcap into a large, black trash bag. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he turned to look at Beth. He stared at her for a few long seconds. She stared right back, not saying a word. Daryl turned and started up the road. She stood and watched him walk away for a few seconds, wondering what he would do if she just stayed there, didn’t follow him. Would he leave her behind? 

She knew that he didn’t want to be with her, that he would much rather be with Michonne or Carol. They were the _real_ survivors, not like her. She was just more baggage to him, one more thing to have to look after.

In spite of herself, she hitched the little trash bag into a more secure grip and followed after Daryl, wondering if it was worth her time to try and convince him she was worth his.


	3. Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She watched Daryl at work, his face rigid with a kind of determined contempt, his arms slick with sweat and dirt. His hands were quick and sure, every movement deliberate. He was made for this. Daryl Dixon was a survivor.
> 
>  _Am I?_ Beth Asked herself. _I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? That’s gotta count for somethin’..._
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter is written from **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

They weren’t on the road for long. Daryl led them off the road and into the trees, opposite the way they had come when they had found the car. They didn’t go too deep into the woods before they stopped.

Daryl dropped his trash bag on the ground and Beth did the same.

“M’gonna hunt,” Daryl said, turning to look at Beth. “You good to set up?”

She nodded. After she’d watched him disappear into the trees, she dug through Daryl’s black bag and pulled out an old canvas tarp and some rope. She strung the rope around some trees and hung the tarp over it, then found a stick to prop it up into a makeshift tent. Next, she knelt on the ground and started digging a small ditch with her fingers. When it was deep enough for a small fire, she rummaged around her for a few twigs and leaves and placed them into the ditch. She held up the side mirror and the broken glass she’d collected from the car and aimed the ray of reflected light at the leaves. When she saw smoke, she leaned forward and blew gently on the tiny flame.

Satisfied, she sat up and admired her handiwork, then glimpsed the bags next to her and realized she’d forgotten to assemble the chimes. She scolded herself, imagining Daryl would have ridiculed her if he’d known she’d turned her back to the woods without setting up an alarm first.

 _Oh well_ , she reasoned, _at least the fire will be ready for us to cook whatever Daryl brings back for us to eat._

She found a few old bungee cords in Daryl’s black bag, along with all four hubcaps from the car. There wasn’t much else that would make good chimes, so she reckoned she would have to make due. Once the chimes were set up on either side of the camp, she gave them a little shake, testing them. 

Deciding things were as good as they were going to get, she sat down under the tent and pulled her little green diary from her back pocket.

Flipping through the pages to get to a fresh blank one, she caught glimpses of older entries.

_...new people at the farm today. Daddy helped a boy that was shot. It doesn’t look good; he’s..._

Then a few pages beyond that:

_...still looking for that little girl that went missing. I sure hope they find her soon, she’s gotta be so scared..._

Then the most recent entry:

_...been a while. I’m gonna be honest, I forgot about you..._

Beth stopped turning the pages and paused to read the passage.

     _After the farm, we were always moving. But something happened. Something good, finally. We found a prison. Daddy thinks that we can make it into a home. He says we can grow crops in the field, find pigs and chickens, stop running, stop scavenging._
 _     Lori’s baby’s just about due. She’ll need a safe place when it comes. The rest of us, we just need a safe place to be. I woke up in my own bed yesterday. My own bed, in my own room. But I’ve been keeping my backpack, keeping my gun close. I’ve been afraid to get my hopes up thinking we can actually stay here. The thing is, I’ve been starting to get afraid that it’s easier just to be afraid. 
    But this morning, Daddy said something: “If you don’t have hope, what’s the point of living?” So I unpacked my bag and I found you. So I’m gonna start writing in you again. And I’m gonna write this down now because you should write down wishes to make them come true: We can live here. We can live here for the rest of our lives. 
    We’re not gonna die. None of us. I believe now. I believe for Daddy. If this doesn’t work, I dunno how I could keep going.
_

Beth stared at the page, her chest swelling at the sudden influx of memory.

_We can live here for the rest of our lives._

The words echoed in Beth’s head repeatedly, overlapping into a chaotic blur.

A branch snapped and some leaves rustled in the forest nearby the camp. Beth reflexively dropped the diary on the ground, retrieving her knife from its holster on her belt. She sprung to her feet without a sound and crept up to a tree in the direction from which the continued rustling was coming, hiding behind the trunk. As slowly as she could, trying to keep her knife steady in her hand, she leaned inch by inch around the edge of the tree.

Daryl, his back to the camp, was peeling the skin from a dead rattlesnake. Beth sighed in relief and stepped out from behind the tree. Daryl turned around at the sound of her footsteps and looked her up and down. Realizing that there was no threat, he turned and resumed skinning the dead snake. Beth stood and watched him for a moment, studying the muscles of his arms as they flexed and pulled, vaguely registering the pleasant tingling sensation trickling through her body as she observed him, then she walked back over to the tent.

Her body was still shaking slightly, both from the scare of thinking a walker had found their camp and from the preceding emotional tidal wave that had come over her while reading her diary. She looked down at the little green book lying innocently on the forest floor where she’d dropped it. She bent to the ground and picked up the diary, dusting it off as she righted herself.

She had intended to write another passage when she had initially opened the book, but reading her last diary entry had left her emotionally drained. She had actually believed they could make lives for themselves at the prison. That they could be safe; that they could be happy. 

Daryl stalked over to the camp and held out the bloody, skinless rattlesnake with both hands, offering it to Beth.

“Wanna hold this?” he asked.

“No, I do not,” Beth laughed incredulously, flinging her hands away and taking a step back.

“It’s dead, it ain’t gonna bite cha,” he assured her, somewhat gruffly. He seemed at a loss that anyone would recoil at being handed a slimey, skinless, dead snake. He turned momentarily and looked at the fire Beth had started.

“Good, you got it goin’.” He turned away from her, no longer trying to offer her the snake. He was looking all around the ground, apparently searching for something. “Well, if you ain’t gonna hold this, help me find a couple sticks for a spit.”

She stowed the diary in her back pocket and began searching. After a few minutes, she’d found some suitable branches, and Daryl set to work fashioning the cooking spit and preparing the snake for eating. 

She watched Daryl at work, his face rigid with a kind of determined contempt, his arms slick with sweat and dirt. His hands were quick and sure, every movement deliberate. He was made for this. Daryl Dixon was a survivor.

 _Am I?_ Beth Asked herself. _I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? That’s gotta count for somethin’..._

“You okay?” Daryl asked her abruptly.

She felt the muscles in her face slacken as she looked up at him, realizing she had been staring, unseeing, at his hands. She must have had a look on her face. Daryl was crouching next to the fire, surveying her with poorly-veiled concern, like he was trying to appear only casually interested. But his eyes gave him away, and she knew he was worried.

“M’fine,” she muttered, nodding as she sat down next to the tent.

Daryl gave her a last look of contemplation, then resumed cutting up the snake which was now apparently ready to be eaten. He handed her the first section of meat, then took a second portion he had cut for himself. He cleaned his knife and stuck it into a log on the other side of the fire opposite the tent, sat down, and took a large bite out of the cylindrical hunk of flesh.

Beth stared at him for a moment, looked down at her own piece of meat, then back at Daryl. He seemed perfectly content to eat in silence, not looking at her. He chomped away, every once in a while stopping to pull bones out of his mouthful of snake-meat.

Beth noted this and took a wary first bite, cautiously swishing her tongue around for bones. It actually wasn’t bad. Otis had brought pheasant to their house once after a hunting trip, and she reckoned rattlesnake meat tasted a little bit like pheasant.

And just like that, she was remembering everything all over again. Otis, who had never returned from the high school with Shane; Patricia and Jimmy, neither of whom had made it away from the farm; Zack, who—Daryl told her—had died on a run; her daddy, murdered by the Governor. All of them, dead. She wondered what the chances were that Maggie had made it out, that any of them had survived the attack, or the wilderness that they were now sentenced to traverse.

A faint ringing had started in Beth’s ears, and she could feel the urge to weep welling up in her chest, her eyes prickling with the threat of tears. She blinked them away and took another bite of snake. She pulled some bones out and discarded them next to her on the ground, then set down the hunk of meat, wiping her fingers on her thighs.

She needed a break from this, from the memories. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

“I need a drink,” she said flatly, staring at Daryl.

He reached in front of him and hurled something at her, not looking up from his meal. A dirty, green plastic bottle filled with water—Daryl must have filled it while he was out hunting—had landed against her knee. She picked up the bottle and set it aside.

“That’s not what I meant. I need a _drink_. Alcohol,” she clarified.

He glanced over at her for a moment, then looked back at the ground.

“Dunno what you want me to do about it,” he shrugged, taking another bite.

“Let’s go _find_ some,” Beth suggested.

He took another bite of snake and continued to stare at the ground. Beth took that to mean “no.”

“Fine,” she said, standing up. “I’ll find some myself.”

She strutted past Daryl and yanked the knife out of the log. Without a backward glance, she pressed on into the forest, stowing the knife in her belt.

After she’d put maybe a hundred yards between herself and Daryl, she turned abruptly and stood glaring in the direction of the camp. 

“Jerk,” she said under her breath as she seethed, wishing—somewhat childishly, she knew—that he could feel her contempt. But she didn’t care if she was being a childish; _he_ was being an _asshole_. That made them even in her book.

Beth could suddenly hear walkers growling, approaching quickly. She whipped around and saw four of them heading her way. She hurried forward a few feet and hid behind a tree that was just barely wider than she was. She hoped with everything in her that they hadn’t seen her. Either way, the snarling was coming closer with every second; they were still headed directly towards her. Time was running out. 

She looked down and immediately noticed a large rock next to her foot. She scooted her way down the tree, keeping her back against its trunk to stay hidden, and grabbed the rock. She stood up as quickly as she dared and threw the rock some fifteen feet away from her. Most of the growling seemed to follow in the direction of the rock, but at least one walker was still approaching the tree where she stood. Had it seen her arm when she threw the rock? 

Beth pulled the knife from its holster and hugged it to her chest. The rasping and sputtering of the walker was right on the other side of the tree now. She tried desperately to keep her breathing even and quiet. Beth turned ever so slightly to be able to face the creature when it came around the tree, but just as she was about to raise her knife, it turned and followed the other walkers that it seemed to have finally noticed.

Beth watched the walkers stumble away, allowing her breathing to regulate more with every few feet of distance between her and them. Her heart was about to pound its way out of her chest.

A twig snapped behind her. She jumped and turned around, her knife at the ready.

Daryl was standing not three feet from her, his crossbow at ease. She wouldn’t have been surprised to have felt physical burns from the glare he was giving her.

She tried to flash a defiant stare, but only succeeded in looking sheepish, realizing she’d almost gotten herself attacked by walkers only for Daryl to come to her rescue, _again_.

Daryl lowered his bow, still glaring at Beth, then turned and stalked away through the trees.

 _I could’ve handled it,_ she thought bitterly, and she followed after him.


	4. Welcome to the Dog Trot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shit,_ he thought, seething. _Well, at least today will be interesting,_ he speculated sardonically. _I was gettin’ bored, anyway. Haven’t fended for my life in a good couple hours._
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter has portions from both **Daryl's POV** and **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

“I think we made it away,” Beth said to Daryl’s back. 

Usually when they traveled, Daryl led them at a pace with which Beth could easily keep up, frequently checking to make sure she was close behind him. This time though, he trudged on through the brush, not looking behind him once.

She supposed he had good reason to be irritated with her but all the same, she wasn’t sorry. She knew what she wanted and she was going to go get it, with or without his help.

The walker-chimes jangled noisily as she tripped into them, and the anger that had dissipated since Daryl found her a few minutes ago flared up once more.

“What the _hell?_ You brought me back!” she exclaimed. “I’m not staying in this _fucking_ camp!”

She thrust her middle-finger into the air and glowered at Daryl, then turned to head back the way they had come. Before she had taken a step however, Daryl had yelled, “Hey!” and grabbed ahold of Beth’s extended forearm in a firm grip, stepping over the chimes as Beth tried to pull away from him.

“You had your fun!” he growled.

Beth yanked her arm out of his grasp.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” she yelled, forgetting to speak quietly. “Do you feel _anythin’?_ ”

Daryl scowled at her, swaying on the spot as he found his footing.

“Yeah, you think everything’s fucked,” she shouted. “I guess that’s a feelin’. So you wanna spend the rest of our lives starin’ into a fire and eatin’ mud snakes? _Fuck_ that! We might as well _do_ somethin’!”

Daryl continued to glare at her in silence.

“I can take care of myself,” she spat, sounding much braver than she felt, “and I’m gonna get a goddamn drink.”

And she turned and hurried away before Daryl had the chance to grab her again.

* * *

Daryl stared after Beth, then turned to stare at the empty campsite.

He didn’t have to put up with this. He should just stay here at the camp, he thought indignantly. Let her have her own way, let her learn something. 

Despite his exasperation, he pushed the thought from his mind as quickly as it had come, and before he knew it he was running after Beth in the direction she had gone, cursing under his breath.

Daryl caught up to Beth as she was approaching a clearing. He wasn’t going to reach her in time to physically stop her from walking out into the open, and he didn’t want to call out for fear of alerting anything nearby.

_Shit,_ he thought, seething. _Well, at least today will be interesting,_ he speculated sardonically. _I was gettin’ bored, anyway. Haven’t fended for my life in a good couple hours._

His anger bubbled when Beth stepped out of the trees and into the clearing, as if he had expected her to heed his unspoken warnings. Only a few seconds behind, he emerged from the trees to see she had stopped and was looking at a white building in the distance, about a football-field away from them to their right. She turned around when she heard him approach.

“Golfers like to booze it up, right?” she inquired innocently.

Distant moaning and shuffling sounded from the far side of the clearing to their left, and Daryl turned to see about a half-a-dozen walkers shuffling in their direction. They had undoubtedly been spotted.

“Come on,” Beth said, and he heard her departing footsteps.

Deciding it wasn’t worth it to take the few of them down—there could be more of them in the trees, close behind the ones they could see—he turned away from the advancing walkers and followed Beth past an overturned golf cart toward the building.

Daryl watched her as she bounded forward, her long, blonde ponytail bouncing behind her. She moved with a determination he simply couldn’t understand. This was her mission. While he endeavored to find shelter, food, and safety for the pair of them, she was off on a quest for booze like some stupid movie about the nonsensical escapades of teenagers.

About halfway there, Daryl stopped and picked up a golf club he noticed lying on the ground, figuring that it might be handy to have something to swing. He slung his crossbow around his back and rested the club against his shoulder, pressing on after Beth.

As they approached the entrance to the building, Daryl saw a sign half-covered in overgrown shrubs and weeds; he could make out the words _Pine Vista Country Club_.

“Might be people inside,” Beth offered hopefully. 

She had stopped in front of four dirty, white pillars that were holding up a roof over a small raised patio outside the entrance door. Daryl shrugged and followed as she made her way up the patio steps. She stepped over the body of a man lying in the corner against a wrought iron fence. Daryl set the club on the ground as he bent down and frisked the body for valuables but found nothing useful. Beth, meanwhile, tried and failed to open the double doors, grabbing them by the handles and shaking; neither door would budge.

As Daryl picked up the golf club once more and stood up, he looked out into the clearing from which they had come. There were now twice as many walkers as there were before, and they were now fifty yards closer.

Daryl jumped up and signaled to Beth to follow. He led her down the steps and around the corner, holding the club like a baseball bat, ready to swing. Rounding the corner, they found another entrance accompanied by a small flight of stairs. Seeing that they were at least momentarily in the clear, Daryl held the club in his right hand and held the guard rail with his left, jumping two steps at a time.

Reaching the landing at the top of the steps, Daryl turned to Beth and raised a finger, signaling that she both keep quiet and stay back. She nodded quickly, and he turned back to the door. Holding the golf club ready in one hand, he slowly pulled the handle of one of the doors. It creaked slightly as it opened, and Daryl leaned in and peered inside, keeping his hand on the door. Seeing no immediate danger, he opened the door wider and turned to Beth.

“Come on,” he grunted, holding the door open for Beth after him. 

Once she was inside, he pulled the door closed and slid the golf club between the door handles, locking the doors shut. There were newspapers coating the entire door, as well as all the windows lining the room they had just entered.

Daryl could hear the gurgling and snarling of a few walkers, but he vaguely registered that there were no accompanying footsteps, nor were there sounds of any other movement. They stepped further into the room, slowly, Daryl with his bow aimed and ready. There was junk strewn everywhere; most of it, Daryl noticed, was clothing, blankets, and sleeping bags.

Looking around at the debris, Daryl noticed a flashlight and picked it up. There was light coming into the room through the newspapers on the windows, but it was too dim to make anything out. He clicked the flashlight on and shone it all around. At the end of the room, he could see three walkers dangling by their necks from the ceiling. 

He was suddenly reminded of finding a lone walker in the middle of the woods while searching with Andrea all night for Sophia. It, too, had been dangling from its neck, but from a tree branch next to a tent rather than from a ceiling in a boarded-up country club.

He recalled the words he had said when Andrea asked him to put it down. _He made his choice; opted out. Let him hang._ (Although, he remembered, he did end up shooting it anyway in return for Andrea’s answer to a question he had asked her). He hoped Beth would refrain from asking him the same of the three walkers in front of them now; he felt certain somehow that he would oblige if she did, despite his compulsion to conserve ammo. But she seemed to be avoiding looking directly at the swinging, growling corpses, and she didn’t make any comment.

Daryl continued shining the light around the room. There were a few dead bodies on the ground, and one on a cot. Finally, he spotted something that wasn’t blankets or clothing; stacks of twenty-dollar bills, scattered change, and jewelry. Immediately, he grabbed a black leather satchel he saw lying on the ground and began filling it hurriedly with the cash and jewels.

He knew that most of this stuff was useless from a practical standpoint, but somehow he convinced himself it was worth taking. He didn’t really believe things would ever be back to normal to the point that American currency would still hold monetary value, and logically he doubted that gold and jewels were still worth more than food and water. But his body seemed to be reacting impulsively, independent of rational thought.

“Why are you keepin’ all that stuff?” Beth asked, clearly puzzled.

He shot her a glance and resumed filling the bag.

The doors he had bolted shut with the golf club banged suddenly, and a dozen walkers threw their weight against the doors, snarling and scratching. They must have seen the light from the flashlight, Daryl figured.

He jumped up, slinging the satchel onto his back and held the crossbow and flashlight, one in each hand. He crossed the room to a pair of blue double-doors and swung them open. He filed through the doors to a narrow hallway and spun around, keeping his eyes on the front door. When Beth was in the hallway with him, he slammed the doors shut.

* * *

Except for the light from their flashlights, it was completely dark in the hallway.

Daryl led Beth through the hall and through a doorway to a room that looked like a sort of kitchen-storage room. There were metal shelves and counters along the walls and in the center of the room. 

Beth immediately noticed a few bottles that might have been alcohol sitting on the countertop, but upon shining her light on them she saw that they were empty. While Daryl searched the shelves, Beth moved on alone through another doorway leading into a similar room with more metal shelving and counters, pulling her knife out as she crossed the threshold. 

She made her way through the room past some overflowing garbage cans and several bulging, black trash bags piled against the wall in the corner. At the end of the room was yet another doorway, but where the others were unobstructed, this one had strips of plastic sheeting hanging over it, like one might find in an industrial freezer.

Shining her light through before her, she swiped the sheets of plastic aside with her knife and stepped through the doorway. A few feet down the hallway on the right was a closet with a tall metal shelf inside it. She shone her light up and down the closet; there was a dead walker lying on the ground. She moved the light up the shelf and saw that on the topmost rack was perched a dusty bottle of wine.

She couldn’t tell if the bottle was full. She stepped over the body on the ground and stowed her knife, climbing up onto the first level of the shelf. It clanged and rattled under her weight and she instinctively shone the flashlight on the ground and looked down at the dead body. It didn’t move, as she had known it wouldn’t, so she continued to push herself up to the top shelf and grabbed for the bottle.

When she had it in her grip, she lowered herself down off the shelf and stepped out of the closet back into the hallway, staring at the bottle in her hands. It was _full!_

Snarling and spitting sounded abruptly from directly behind her, and before she had even spun all the way around, a walker had grabbed her arm and was snapping furiously at her. As she turned and faced it, it grabbed her by the shoulders. She shoved it up against the wall and tried to grab her knife from her belt, but her hands were already holding the wine bottle and the flashlight.

With little choice left, she raised the bottle and brought it crashing down against the creature’s ugly head. The blow acted as no hindrance whatsoever to the walker, and it lunged at Beth, pushing her further down the hallway. Still holding the bottleneck, Beth stabbed at the advancing walker’s face with the broken shards of the bottle, but it did as much damage as the initial impact.

Finally realizing the uselessness of the broken bottle, she cast it into the darkness and grabbed her knife from her belt. With all her might, she shoved the wine-soaked walker against the wall and thrust the knife into its skull, just above its eye socket. Immediately, it ceased its thrashing and growling.

As the body slid to the floor, Beth saw Daryl standing behind it, apparently having just entered the hall through the plastic sheeting.

“Thanks for the help,” she snapped, glaring at him.

“You said you could take care of yourself,” he retorted. “You did.”

He stalked away back through the plastic strips, and she slumped against the wall, breathing heavily and looking around the room. On a wall to her right were the words “WELCOME TO THE DOG TROT” scrawled in what might have been grease or oil. Several dead bodies were lying on the ground dressed in khakis and sweaters that were most likely in pristine condition before the turn.

Beth looked down and saw the shattered bottle, Daryl’s words echoing in her mind. She knew he was right. From that moment on, she knew that she would have to learn to take care of herself if she was going to make it through this world alive.


	5. Tempus Fugit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She stared at the bottle of Schnapps. She could feel her chest getting tighter, and her eyes were starting to prickle. Daddy was dead. The prison was gone. Everyone they knew was either killed by the Governor and his men, or _out there_ somewhere, exposed, trying to survive. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter has portions from both **Daryl's POV** and **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

Daryl led Beth down some stairs and into another dark hallway. In the light of their flashlights, they could see that a glass trophy-case was leaning against the wall and blocking their way. In addition, a grandfather clock was leaning against the glass case, perpendicular to it. Daryl set his crossbow on top of the case, pinning it against the glass corner and the wall. He crawled under the case, lay down on his side, grabbed the clock by the base in both hands and gently pushed it upright. Daryl froze for a moment when the clock gave a soft chime as it was righted. When nothing came to investigate the sound, Daryl crawled the rest of the way under and stood up.

Daryl offered Beth his hand when she was through to the other side. She took his hand and he helped her to her feet. He briefly acknowledged a kind of swooping sensation in his stomach as their hands touched, but he let go of her hand as soon as she was standing, and he ignored the feeling.

Beth had walked on ahead into the next room down the hall, and Daryl hung back to look at the grandfather clock, hoping to put some distance between the pair of them. He noticed the words _Tempus Fugit_ written above the face of the clock in elegant lettering. He paused, wondering what the words might mean, then followed after Beth into the next room. 

As he entered, he saw Beth standing on the other side of the room with her back to him. She was naked from the waist up, except for her bra. The skin on the back of his neck prickled and he felt like he should probably look away, but he continued to stare nonetheless. She pulled a shirt over her head and swiveled to face him, not yet realizing he was in there. Daryl caught a glimpse of her breasts before he quickly turned his head.

He started moving about the room quickly, gathering items. With a twinge of guilt, he hoped she hadn’t noticed him ogling her.

* * *

Beth pulled her new, yellow polo over her head and turned to look at a mirror that was hanging on the outside of a dressing-room door. It looked good on her, if she didn’t say so herself. She felt good wearing her mom’s favorite color, and it felt nothing short of miraculous to be out of her filthy old tank tops and into something clean. Well, clean- _er_ , she supposed, but what was a little dust compared to weeks of sweat and dirt?

She grabbed a white cardigan that was hanging on the rack next to her and shrugged into the sweater. She liked the new outfit a lot, and she smiled at her reflection.

She turned to check if Daryl had come into the room yet and she saw that he was sitting in a chair, looking at a manikin whose torso had been replaced with that of a dead woman’s. Her white blouse hung open and a sign had been slung around her neck reading “RICH BITCH” in red lettering. Beth shone her light on the manikin. The corpse was wearing pearl earrings and a pearl necklace which was draped in front of the sign. Blood had oozed over the edge of the legs and dried in an eerie red splatter.

Beth approached the manikin and stared at it. This was so sick.

She pulled the blouse over the woman’s shoulders, trying to cover her up some. She grabbed the legs and made to lift the manikin but it was too heavy for her to do by herself.

“Help me take her down,” she asked, looking up at Daryl.

“Don’t matter, it’s dead,” he said, waving away her request.

“It _does_ matter,” she raised her eyebrows at Daryl, then resumed struggling to lift the mankin. She had the thing tilted on its base when Daryl was suddenly next to her holding a blue blanket.

“Here,” he grunted, laying the blanket over the dead woman, covering everything from the knees up.

Without looking at Beth, he turned and headed back out into the hallway, and Beth followed. Daryl shone his light about the halls, apparently deliberating which way they should go next.

The grandfather clock in the hall suddenly emitted three slow, echoing gongs. Daryl and Beth both jumped and shone their lights on the clock. No walkers had come out into the hall.

“Come on,” Daryl said and tapped Beth on the shoulder, leading them down to the end of the hall and turning right. At the end of the passage they had just entered were two walkers stumbling through a doorway. They whipped around and Daryl shone his light into another doorway, hoping for an exit. Another two walkers were stirring and growling, headed straight for them.

Beth spun around, tugging on Daryl’s vest as she ran for a stairwell she had noticed at the last moment and sprinted down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she fled through a doorway and kept running until she got to the end of a lounge room. Light was streaming in through one small newspapered window. She turned around and saw Daryl hot on her heals, flying around the corner, his crossbow raised. His eyes met hers for the fleetest of moments, then he turned and aimed his bow at the entrance.

Daryl took the first walker down with a shot to the head, but the second one was upon him before the first had even fallen to the floor. Daryl lifted his bow in both hands and shoved it into the approaching walker’s torso, launching it up against the wall, the creature still clutching Daryl’s bow. As a third walker entered the lounge, Daryl snatched up a golf club from off the floor, swung at the second walker’s head, obliterating its skull, then brought the club down on the third walker’s head. It fell to the ground and took the golf club with it, the shaft protruding grotesquely from it’s forehead. 

Daryl yanked at the club; the driver stayed lodged in the walker’s face while the shaft snapped free, and Daryl stumbled away to face another walker that had just come through the doorway. He grabbed the club in both hands and thrust the broken end of the stick up into its eye socket; it dropped to the ground in an instant.

Two more walkers came through the door, and Daryl kicked the first one in the chest, knocking it to the ground, letting out an angry bellow as he did so. The other walker ambled forward as Daryl discarded the broken club and ripped his knife from his belt. He charged forward and grabbed the walker by the throat, shoving it up against the doorframe. He drove the knife through the walker’s left eye and its arms fell to its sides.

Daryl threw the dead body away from him and turned to face the walker he had kicked to the ground, now getting to its feet. He stowed the knife on his belt and spun quickly around to retrieve another golf club that was lying on a table behind him, then turned back to face the advancing walker, swinging the club like a baseball bat. He brought the club down hard against it’s shoulder, knocking it to the ground once more. 

Beth waited for the final blow, but Daryl bludgeoned the walker repeatedly, siphoning all his rage and strength into beating the squirming, snarling creature on the ground.

Beth made to step forward, not sure what she would even do, when Daryl finally swung the club in a legitimate golf swing at its skull, flinging a shower of guts and blood all over her. She looked down at her blood-spattered cardigan, then up at Daryl.

He was standing over the dead walker, breathing heavily and glaring down at it, his face contorted with rage and disgust. He looked up at Beth, his chest heaving. She wasn’t sure what she should do, so she turned her back on Daryl and began unbuttoning her cardigan. She peeled the sweater off and dropped in on the ground, then walked through the exit at the far end of the room.

Beth rounded the corner and entered a much wider and shorter hallway that lead to a vast, open room with a high ceiling. She could see a bar at the far end of a room filled with tables and chairs, illuminated by sunlight streaming in through a large window behind the bar.

“We made it,” she said, half-smiling.

She turned around and saw Daryl staring at her, his crossbow held at ease in both hands across his chest.

“I know you think this is stupid,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes. “And it probably is. But... I don’t care.”

He met her gaze and continued to glare at her.

“All I wanted to do today was lay down and cry, but we don’t get to do that,” she continued, shaking her head. “So, beat up on walkers if that makes you feel better. I need to do this.”

She turned away from him again and stepped forward into the center of the room. She checked the tables first, but upon finding no alcohol, she made her way behind the bar.

A pair of dead bodies were lying on the ground; a man and a woman had died clutching one another. She gave a little jump when she saw them but quickly composed herself and stepped over them.

On a shelf under the bar, Beth found the only in-tact bottle: _Peach Schnapps_. She picked it up off the shelf and looked down at the bottle in her hands.

Glass shattered to her left, and she snapped her head up to see Daryl smashing his crossbow into a picture frame. He lifted the frame off its hook and pulled a large white document from the plaque.

“Did you _have_ to break the glass?” she chided.

“Nah,” he growled, dropping the frame to the floor. “You have your drink yet?”

She ignored his slightly derisive tone and replied, “No. But I found _this_.” She walked around the bar and sat herself on a stool, placing the bottle on the counter. “Peach Schnapps. Is it good?”

“No,” he snorted, walking past her and striding across the room. “Ain’t you had it before?”

“No. Ain’t never had nothin’ before now.” She looked at the bottle and sighed, then looked back at Daryl. “Well, it’s the only thing left.”

Daryl set his bow down on a pool table, grabbed a billiard ball, observed it momentarily, then dropped it with a loud _CRACK_ back onto the table.

Beth looked across the bar for a glass. She grabbed a mug that was sitting in front of her and peered inside it. A reddish-brown ooze coated the inside. She picked up a crumpled-up napkin and wiped it along the inside of the mug, but it didn’t do much good. She set the mug aside and reached for a wine glass, then set it immediately back down seeing the same reddish gunk.

“Who needs a glass?” she whispered, her voice faltering. She stared at the bottle of Schnapps. She could feel her chest getting tighter, and her eyes were starting to prickle. She reached out and held the bottle in both hands, one on the base, one on the cap.

She knew her daddy used to drink. She knew that it had been a big problem for him for a long time and then he had quit just like that when Maggie was born. He never talked about it much, but it had somehow become common knowledge in their family anyhow, just one of those things you knew without knowing how you knew it or remembering when you learned it. Maggie never drank, and Beth had always felt like she probably never would either as long as she lived at home.

 _Don’t matter now cuz he’s dead,_ she thought savagely, trying to fight her tears away with anger. But rather than assuage her sorrow, the sudden thought brought back the image of the Governor, holding Michonne’s sword high above him.

Daddy was dead. The prison was gone. Everyone they knew was either killed by the Governor and his men, or _out there_ somewhere, exposed, trying to survive.

She couldn’t hold it in any longer. She began sobbing abruptly and dropped one hand to her barstool, steadying herself as she shook. She let herself cry for a few moments, then looked up at the bottle again and leaned her forehead against her hand, propping her elbow up on the counter.

Daryl was suddenly right in front of her. She looked up at him and met his eyes just as he grabbed the bottle. He turned and threw the bottle to the ground, smashing it. He spun back around and glared at Beth.

“Ain’t gonna have your first drink be no damn Peach Schnapps.”

He strode over to the pool table and picked up his bow, then walked a few more steps to an exit and pushed the door open. Standing in the open doorway, he turned and looked at Beth, still sitting at the bar.

“Come on,” he grunted.

Beth stood up off the bar stool, wiping her eyes, and followed after Daryl through the open door.


	6. Straight No Chaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good one.” She took a drink from her cup. “I’ve never... been drunk and did somethin’ I regretted.” _Not yet, anyways,_ she added playfully in her head, glancing at the muscles on Daryl’s arms.
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter is written from **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

It was a straight shot into the woods, only about ten yards away from the country club exit. Daryl looked to his left, then to his right, then turned to Beth and inclined his head forward, signaling the all-clear to follow him.

They walked through the woods in silence— _as usual,_ Beth thought forlornly—for about ten minutes until Beth suddenly remembered a game she and Zack had played at the prison; Zack would tell her his theories of what he thought Daryl had done before the world had ended and they would discuss the likelihood of each one. 

Beth smiled at the memory, then pondered for a moment, trying to recall a guess she hadn’t yet made.

“Motorcycle mechanic,” she guessed without preamble, hurrying forward to walk beside Daryl.

“Huh?” Daryl shot Beth a puzzled look.

“That’s my guess. For what you were doin’ before the turn. Did Zack ever guess that one?”

“Don’t matter,” he said pragmatically. “Hasn’t mattered for a long time.”

“It’s just what people talk about. You know, to feel normal.”

“Yeah, well,” he mumbled, “that never felt normal to me.”

All of a sudden, they were stepping out of the trees and into a small clearing, in the center of which was a shack comprised of a small trailer and two connecting sheds. All three buildings had been painted the same cheap-looking brown color.

“Found this place with Michonne,” Daryl explained.

Beth observed the scene, perplexed. “I was expecting a liquor store.”

“Nah,” Daryl elucidated, “this is better.” A little smile played on his lips before he turned and headed towards the smallest shack.

Stopping first to check inside a large window as he passed the trailer in the middle, he led Beth to the door of the smallest shack on the left and pulled it open. Inside sat two enormous wooden barrels and an old-looking furnace. Daryl bent down to pick up a wooden crate from the corner of the room just inside the door, gathering some glass jars from a small shelf as he did so. 

“What’s that?” Beth asked warily.

He put the jars in the crate, then grabbed it by the sides and righted himself.

“Moonshine,” he grunted, handing the crate to Beth and stepping past her.

Taken aback, she stared down into the crate, then turned and followed Daryl into the trailer. It was an absolute mess. Shreds of newspaper were scattered about the floor, windows were shattered, great chunks of the wallpaper had peeled away, and a mountain of filthy dishes filled the sink in the tiny kitchen area. Daryl crossed the trailer to a door at the end of the kitchen. He pulled it open slowly, peering inside, then closed it again and set his bow on the ground against a cabinet under the sink. Beth set the crate down on a junky kitchen table.

Daryl leaned over the table and grabbed one of the jars he had collected. He picked up a plastic cup that was sitting on the table and blew into it to remove some dust, poured about a quarter-of-a-cup of the clear liquid into it, then set it in front of Beth.

“That’s a _real_ first drink, right there,” he said, standing up straight again.

Beth eyed the liquid warily.

“What’s a’matter?” Daryl growled when she didn’t drink.

“Nothin’,” Beth stammered quickly, “it’s just... my dad always said bad moonshine could make you go blind.”

“Ain’t nothin’ worth seein’ out there anymore anyway,” Daryl reasoned.

Beth looked down at the cup, contemplating Daryl’s words.

 _Here goes nothin’,_ she thought, steeling herself. She gave one last long look at the cup, then lifted it to her lips—it smelled like rubbing alcohol—and took a sip.

It _tasted_ like rubbing alcohol. The liquid felt unexpectedly warm in her throat.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.”

The corner of Daryl’s mouth curved into the tiniest of grins, then he shrugged and grimaced. Beth tilted the cup back and downed the rest of it in one gulp. She smiled as the liquid warmed her throat and stomach, the sensation slightly more pleasant this time.

“Second round’s better,” she said brightly, reaching for the jar.

“Whoa, slow down,” Daryl warned.

“This one’s for you,” she explained, beginning to tilt the jar over the cup’s edge.

Daryl raised a hand in protest. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Why?”

“Someone’s gotta keep watch,” he admonished her. She half-expected him to say, “Duh.”

“So, what, you’re like my chaperone now?” she taunted.

He snorted derisively, then strutted past Beth saying, “Just drink lots’a water.”

“Yes, _Mr. Dixon_ ,” she mocked.

Daryl grabbed the crate of moonshine off the table and set it on one of the kitchen chairs, then went into the living room.

Beth swigged the tiny bit of liquid that had spilled into the cup before she had stopped herself from pouring, then stood up from the table and turned to see Daryl holding up a large strip of cardboard. He positioned it so that it covered most of the window, then pulled out a hammer he had stuck in his waistband and started nailing the cardboard to the wall.

She scanned the messy living room. She figured she might as well make herself useful and search for any practical items. She got down on her knees and rummaged behind a recliner chair until she found a large, shocking-pink ashtray shaped like a woman’s bra, overflowing with cigarette butts. She giggled, picking it up and setting it in front of the recliner.

“Who’d go into a store and walk out with _this?_ ” she scoffed.

Daryl finished nailing, then turned to look at the ashtray. “My dad, that’s who.”

Her smile faltered, worried that she had insulted him.

“Oh, he’s a dumbass,” Daryl assured her, recognizing her chagrin. “He’d set those up on top of the TV set, use ‘em as target practice.”

“He _shot_ things inside your _house?_ ” Beth asked, bewildered.

“It was just a bunch of junk anyway,” Daryl justified. “That’s how I knew what this place was. That shed out there; my dad had a place just like this. You gotcher dumpster chair—” he pointed at a chair to his right, “that’s for sittin’ in, in your drawers all summer, drinkin’. Gotcher fancy buckets—” he pointed to a spittoon sitting on the floor next to the chair. “S’fer spittin’ chaw in, after your old lady tells ya to stop smokin’.” He turned and picked up a newspaper that was sitting on a table behind him. “You got yer internet.” He dropped the newspaper onto the floor and snorted.

The sound of growling suddenly floated through the window, and Daryl held up a finger to Beth as he peered out the sliver of window still uninhibited by the cardboard. He turned back around and looked at Beth.

“Ah, it’s just one of ‘em.”

“Should we get it?” Beth asked, trying not to sound worried.

“If it keeps makin’ too much noise, yeah.” But the growling had already ceased; it must have wandered away, Beth thought.

“Well,” she reached for a jar of moonshine that was sitting on the floor next to her. “If we’re gonna be trapped again, we might as well make the best of it.” She offered the jar to Daryl. “Unless you’re too busy chaperoning, Mr. Dixon.”

Daryl hesitated, then reached out and grabbed the jar out of Beth’s outstretched hand.

“Hell,” he huffed, “might as well make the best of it.”

He plopped down into the recliner next to Beth and unscrewed the lid from the jar. Beth twisted around and grabbed her plastic cup from off of the table behind her. Dary leaned forward and poured some of the liquid into Beth’s cup, then sat back in the chair and raised his glass to Beth in a sort of salute.

“Home, sweet home,” he mumbled as he tossed the jar back, and Beth drank at the same time.

Beth sat enjoying the sensation of the liquid warming her throat again, then looked up at Daryl. He was staring straight ahead at the wall, brooding.

“We should play a game,” she suggested.

“What?” he snorted. “I don’t think we’re gonna find any games in this place.”

“No, like, a drinkin’ game.”

“Don’t know any,” he said.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she assured him, smiling.

She pulled a plastic crate out of the corner of the room, dragged it out in front of the recliner and sat down on the ground on the other side of the carton, facing Daryl. Mirroring Beth, Daryl crawled out of the recliner down onto the floor and sat, leaning against the chair, and set his jar on the crate.

“Okay, it’s called ‘I never.’ So, first, I say somethin’ I’ve never done, and if you _have_ done it, you drink. Then we switch.” Daryl stared at her. “You really don’t know this game?”

“I ain’t never needed a game to get lit before.”

“Wait, are we startin’?”

Daryl eyed her suspiciously. “How do _you_ know this game?”

“My friends played,” Beth explained. “I watched... Okay, I’ll start.” She contemplated for a moment. “I’ve never... shot a crossbow... So, now you drink.”

“Ain’t much of a game,” he said disdainfully, reaching for his jar.

“That was a warm-up,” she clarified. “Now, you go.”

He stared at the jar and chewed on his thumb. 

“I dunno,” he grunted.

“Just say the first thing that pops into your head.”

“I never been outta Georgia,” he said automatically, looking up at Beth.

“Really? Okay, good one.” She took a drink from her cup. “I’ve never... been drunk and did somethin’ I regretted.” _Not yet, anyways,_ she added playfully in her head, glancing at the muscles on Daryl’s arms.

He looked down at his jar, then lifted it to his lips and gulped. 

“I done a lotta things.” He set the jar back down and stared at it for a few moments.

“Your turn,” Beth prompted him, and he looked back up at her.

He pondered for a moment, then said, “I never been on vacation.”

“What about campin’?” Beth quizzed.

“No,” he reiterated, “that was just somethin’ I had to learn, to hunt.”

“Your dad teach you?”

He hummed and gave a little nod.

“Okay,” she said, taking a swig. “I’ve never... been in jail.”

Daryl glared at her.

“I mean, as a prisoner,” she amended, recalling the fact that she had spent the past several months living in a prison.

Daryl glowered at her, and she shifted awkwardly under his gaze.

“S’that what you think of me?”

“I didn’t mean anything _serious,_ ” she sputtered, trying desperately to correct her error. “I just thought, you know, like, the drunk tank. Even my dad got locked up for that back in the day.” She smiled nervously; judging by the look on Daryl’s face, she wasn’t doing a very good job smoothing it over.

Daryl stabbed a finger towards Beth’s glass. “Drink up,” he snapped.

“Wait, prison guard,” she added, trying again to rectify her mistake and lighten the mood. “Were you a prison guard? Before?”

“Nah,” he replied, humorlessly, and continued to glare at her.

Beth didn’t drink, but glanced nervously at the crate, then said, “It’s your turn again,” inclining her glass towards Daryl, smiling and hoping he would just run with it.

All of a sudden, Daryl rose abruptly from the ground, smacking the crate loudly as he got to his feet.

“Im gonna take a piss,” he growled, marching across the room.

Beth stared down at her glass, feeling guilty.

_SMASH!_

Beth whipped her head to her right to see that Daryl had shattered his jar onto the ground. He was standing on the other end of the room, urinating onto the wall. Her thoughts jumped immediately to the walker they’d heard earlier.

“You have to be quiet!” she urged.

“Can’t hear ya, I’m takin’ a piss!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

“Daryl, don’t talk so loud,” she said through gritted teeth, growing more anxious.

He peered over his shoulder at her, still urinating. “What, are you my chaperone now?” he bellowed, parroting her words from before 

Beth looked back at her cup and twirled it nervously in her fingers.

“Oh wait, it’s my turn right?” he barked, turning back around and doing up his belt. “I never, uh... never eaten frozen yogurt. Never had a _pet pony_. Never got nothin’ from _Santa Claus_.” He punched a kitchen chair and the crate of moonshine jars sitting on it rattled loudly, then he turned his back on Beth and walked toward the other end of the trailer again. “Never relied on anyone for _protection_ before.” He spun around suddenly and lunged back across the room towards Beth, waving his hand angrily as he yelled, “Hell, I don’t think I ever relied on anyone for _anything!_ ”

“Daryl—” Beth began, but Daryl cut her off.

“Never sung out in front of a big group, out in public, like everything was _fun_. Like everything was a _big game!_ ” He turned his back on her again momentarily, then spun around and stared her right in the eyes. “I sure as hell never _cut my wrists,_ lookin’ for attention!”

The growls of a walker outside drifted through the window once more.

“Oh, it looks like our friend out there is tryin’ to call all of his buddies!” Daryl marched back across the kitchen to retrieve his bow, kicking a metal pan as he did so, sending it clanging deafeningly across the floor.

“Daryl, just _shut up!_ ” Beth pleaded.

Daryl ignored her and pointed his finger at her. “Hey, you never shot a crossbow before? I’ma teach you right now.” He stomped towards her and grabbed her by the arm. “Come on, it’s gon’ be _fun!_ ” He yanked her up off the floor and dragged her over to the front door, kicking it open.

“We should stay _inside!_ ” Beth insisted, trying to tug her arm out of his grip.

He pulled her along behind him, his fingers clamped down on her wrist, ignoring her pleas.

They rounded the corner and saw the walker standing at the window slowly turn around as it realized they were behind it. It ambled forward, its arms outstretched, reaching for them and moaning.

“Dumbass,” Daryl yelled at the walker. “Come here, dumbass!” He raised his bow and fired a bolt at it, pinning it by its shoulder to a tree near the shack.

“Daryl!” Beth yelled, fruitlessly.

“You wanna shoot?” Daryl roared over Beth’s protests, setting another bolt in place.

“I... I dunno know how,” she stammered.

“Aw, it’s easy. Come here!” Daryl grabbed her and pulled her to his chest, one arm wrapped around her chest and the other aiming the bow.

“Right corner,” he barked, firing a bolt into the walker’s left knee.

Daryl let Beth go momentarily, kneeling on the ground and setting another arrow.

“Let’s practice later!” Beth cried out desperately.

“Come on, it’s fun!”

“Just _stop_ it! Daryl!”

“Come here!” 

He grabbed her again, flinging his arm around her neck and raising the bow to aim.

“Eight ball,” he growled, firing a third bolt, hitting it squarely in the chest where its heart would have been. The walker snarled and bobbed its head angrily.

“Just _kill_ it!” Beth yelled as he released her once more.

“Come here, Greene,” he said, striding toward the walker. “Let’s pull these out, get a little more target practice...”

Beth hurried forward furiously and plunged her knife into the walker’s skull before Daryl reached it.

“What the hell you do that for? I was havin’ _fun!_ ” Daryl snapped at Beth.

“No, you were being a jackass! If anyone found my dad—”

“Don’t!” he bellowed, jabbing a finger in her face, “That ain’t remotely the same!”

“Killing them is not s’posed to be _fun!_ ”

Daryl stepped forward suddenly and scowled at her, inches from her face. “What do you want from me, girl? Huh?”

“I want you to stop acting like you don’t give a crap about anythin’! Like nothing we went through matters, like none of the people we lost meant anything to you! It’s _bullshit!_ ”

“Is that what you think?"

“That’s what I _know_.”

Daryl glared at her. “You don’t know _nothin’_ ,” he spat, viciously.

“I know you look at me and you just see another _dead girl_. I’m not Michonne, I’m not Carol, I’m not Maggie. I survived and you don’t get it ‘cause I’m not like you, or them, but, I _made_ it! And you don’t get to treat me like crap just because you’re... afraid!”

Daryl took another step towards Beth and whispered dangerously, “I ain’t afraid o’nothin’.”

She stared at him, not breaking eye contact as he stepped back.

“I remember,” she said, lowering her voice. “When that little girl came out of the barn. After my mom. You were like me.” Daryl turned and stepped away, but Beth stepped towards him again. Her voice gradually raising back into a shout, she hissed “And now God forbid you let anybody get too _close_.”

“Too close, huh?” Daryl sniped, “You know all about that. You lost two boyfriends, you can’t even shed a _tear!_ Your _whole family’s_ gone, all you can do is go out lookin’ for hooch like some dumb college bitch!”

“Fuck you, you don’t get it,” she spat, struggling to keep her voice even.

“No, _you don’t get it!_ ” he bellowed in her face. “Everyone we know’s _dead!_ ”

“You don’t _know_ that!” she shrieked.

“Might as well, because you ain’t _never_ gonna see ‘em again!”

Beth whimpered and looked down.

“Rick,” Daryl continued, jabbing a finger at her again, “You ain’t _never_ gonna see Maggie again—”

“Daryl, just stop!” she yelled, grabbing his hand, but Daryl swatted hers away and spun around. Beth stared at the faded angel wings on the back of Daryl’s vest, brown with age and filth.

“Governor rolled right up to our gates!” he shouted suddenly, still facing away from her. “Maybe if I wouldn’t ‘a stopped lookin’.” His voice faltered, and Beth could hear the threat of tears in his words. “Maybe ‘cause I gave up, that’s on _me!_ ”

“Daryl,” Beth murmured and tried to take his hand again, but once more he yanked his hand away from hers. 

He stood, facing away from Beth and staring at the ground, his chest heaving with emotion. “And your dad. Maybe... maybe I coulda done somethin’...”

Beth lunged forward and wrapped her arms around Daryl. He jumped at the sudden impact, but didn’t push her away. She rested her head against the back of his shoulder and closed her eyes, willing him to feel the forgiveness and empathy in her embrace.

He hung his head forward and wept, his tears falling onto Beth’s arms as she held him.


	7. Burn It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before he realized what he was doing, he had dropped his bow with a clatter onto the floor and pushed his body up against hers, pinning her to the wall. One hand fell to her waist and hooked a finger through her belt loop, his thumb pushing up under her shirt to feel her skin...
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter has portions from both **Daryl's POV** and **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

Daryl sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his fist. He would have felt stupid for crying in front of Beth, but his guilt seemed to outweigh his embarrassment; all those awful things he had said...

He felt Beth’s fingers gently prise his clenched fist open.

“Come on,” she said softly, taking his hand in hers.

She led him around the corner and back through the front door of the trailer. He kept his eyes to the ground as he followed her, but as they crossed the threshold into the living room, he looked up to see her long, blonde ponytail swishing back and forth in front of him.

He grabbed the door handle on his way in and pulled the door closed behind him without turning around. Then before he realized what he was doing, he had dropped his bow with a clatter onto the floor and pushed his body up against hers, pinning her to the wall. One hand fell to her waist and hooked a finger through her belt loop, his thumb pushing up under her shirt to feel her skin; the other hand slid up her arm and rested on her shoulder, caressing the skin under her shirt sleeve. He touched his forehead to hers and realized his eyes were closed, as though the thought of facing her reaction was as terrifying to him as facing any of the risen dead outside.

His brain suddenly caught up with his body.

 _What are you doing!?_ his subconscious seemed to scream from far away. His eyes flew open and he backed away from her hastily, not daring to look at her face.

“M’sorry,” he muttered to his shoulder as he turned, swooping to pick up his bow again. He lumbered across the trailer and exited through the door on the opposite end of the room, closing it behind him.

 _What the fuck was that?_ Daryl asked himself as he plopped down onto the edge of the porch, his back against a post, one foot dangling over the edge. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. He had gotten drunk and fooled around with girls before now, but this felt... different, somehow.

He had never really seen Beth as a woman before now, to put it plainly. She had always been just... some girl. Another person in the background at the prison. Just another mouth he had to feed, another life to protect.

Because that had been his job. It was his duty to protect the people at the prison. And he had failed. He had stopped searching for the Governor, convinced Michonne to stop hunting him. It was _his_ fault everyone in their group was either dead or worse.

He pushed the thought agitatedly from his mind. He pulled out his knife and stabbed it into the porch floor, twisting the handle back and forth. Letting his head fall back against the post behind him, he turned his head toward the door.

He knew that from now on, things were going to be different between the two of them; he just didn’t know yet what that might mean.

* * *

Beth watched Daryl stalk away across the trailer and go out the door. His apology hung in the air where he had been standing moments ago. Had he been apologizing for his behavior outside, or for what just happened?

 _What_ did _just happen?_ she wondered. 

She stood there, her back against the wall, staring across the empty trailer. She thought maybe she should follow after him, but immediately discarded the idea. He wanted to be alone; she could offer him that much, for now anyway.

Instead, she walked over to the recliner and sat down. It was actually pretty comfortable, she noted as she sank into the cushion. She pulled a pencil and the little green book from her back pocket and set it against her thigh, opened to a fresh page in one turn, and stared at the blank paper. She thought for a few moments, then began to write.

    _Daryl and I had a fight. That’s who I’m with now, since the prison was attacked. I guess I should probably tell you about that real quick._
    _The Governor attacked the prison. He brought a tank and people with guns. He had Michonne and Daddy hostage. He killed Daddy. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s done, and I can’t change it._
    _They took the fences down when they attacked, and we all had to leave when the walkers came. I don’t know who else is alive, but I got out with Daryl._
    _We’re at a moonshine still in the middle of the woods. We’ve been here for a few hours; Daryl said he found it with Michonne before and he knew what it was because his dad had a place like this when he was growing up._

Beth continued to write, detailing the events of their game of ‘I never’ and of the fight that followed.

    _I know he didn’t mean all those things. I know now he was just angry with himself because he thinks it was his fault. But it wasn’t. There was nothing anyone coulda done different. And even if there was, we can’t change it now. And I know he’s sorry for what he said._
     _But something weird happened after that. We came inside once he calmed down a little bit, and when I walked in the door, Daryl kinda pushed himself up against me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think I liked it, but it was so... spontaneous. (I hope I spelled that right; there’s no dictionary here). But I mean, I_ did _like it. I thought for sure he was gonna kiss me, but then he just said, “I’m sorry,” and went out onto the back porch._
    _And now here I am, writing about it, like a silly little girl._

Beth looked up at the door on the other side of the trailer through which Daryl had gone. She stared for a few moments, deciding on her next course of action, then looked back at her diary and finished the entry.

    _I’m gonna try and talk to him. (Write more later)._
    _♡Beth_

She stood up, stowed the diary and pencil in her back pocket once more, and made her way to the back door. When she reached it, she gripped the door handle but didn’t turn it. She wasn’t sure if she had given Daryl enough time to be alone. Nor was she certain she was ready to face him; her stomach gave a little backflip.

 _Can’t just stay in here forever,_ she reasoned with herself. And with that final thought, she turned the handle and walked out onto the back porch.

Daryl was sitting with his back against a post, his legs stretched out in front of him and his ankles crossed. He was stabbing a knife sullenly into the porch floor to his right, and he looked up at Beth as the door opened. Their eyes met only momentarily before he averted his eyes again, awkwardly.

“Hey,” Beth said.

“Hey,” Daryl replied, not looking up. 

Beth crossed the small porch and sat down opposite Daryl, her back against the railing. Daryl scooted his legs out of the way as she lowered herself to the porch floor, making more room. He hung one leg off the side of the porch and drew the other leg up to his chest, propping his foot against a post on the edge of the porch.

“Look—” he began, but Beth cut him off.

“S’okay,” she said. “I know you didn’t mean it. I know you miss them, too.” When he still didn’t look up at her, she said, “hey,” again.

He shifted his eyes up to her in a glance, and she said, “It wasn’t your fault.” She paused, and when he didn’t respond, she continued. “We were all happy to think the Governor wasn’t a threat anymore. It’s not anyone’s fault but his that he did the things he did.”

Daryl stared in Beth’s direction, not looking directly in her eyes, then nodded curtly and looked back down at his knife. He wasn’t stabbing it into the floor anymore, just holding the handle, rocking it back and forth on its point, still stuck in the wooden slat of the porch floor.

Beth looked out into the trees surrounding the trailer. The sun was beginning to set. Her mind wandered to days spent in the prison, safe—or so they had thought, then. She had known for a while now that life was never going to be the same again. But they had made a home for themselves at the prison, they had created a system, some semblance of structure and order in this chaos that had taken over the world.

She thought of her friends—her family, now—scattered across the wilderness of Georgia. They could be anywhere. But she didn’t want to think about that right now. She pushed the thoughts from her consciousness, trying to think about anything else.

Like it had earlier, the memories of Zack’s guessing game popped into Beth’s awareness. She smiled and turned back to Daryl.

“Vigilante,” she said abruptly.

Daryl looked up from his knife. He stared at her for a moment, then the tiniest of grins lifted the corners of his mouth.

“Zack tell you ‘bout that one, too?” his grin broadened.

“Mmhmm,” she confirmed. “He said you told him you single-handedly took on the Italian _and_ Russian mafias in Boston.”

Daryl bit his lip, still grinning.

“Well, I know that one ain’t true,” she giggled.

“How come?” he furrowed his brow and tried to scowl in mock-outrage, but Beth could see the smile twitching beneath the scowl.

“Well, for one thing,” she explained, “I think I saw that in a movie once. (Well, in the movie, the guy wasn’t single-handed, he was with his twin brother). And for another, you told me less than two hours ago that you’ve never been outta Georgia.”

His smile faltered slightly and he looked back down at the knife.

“Well, Zack didn’t know that, so...” the end of his sentence trailed off.

Beth looked out to the trees again. Everything was gray in the odd light between dusk and full night. 

Daryl’s words from earlier floated into her consciousness. _Everyone we know is dead,_ he had yelled at her. She reminded herself that he hadn’t meant it, that he was just angry. Angry with himself; angry at being stuck out in the wilderness; angry at the way the world was. And he was drunk. She understood now that booze only seemed to make it worse.

“I get why my dad stopped drinkin’,” she admitted suddenly, looking back at Daryl.

Daryl looked up from his knife. “You feel sick?”

“Nope,” she said, registering the pleasurable hum pulsating through her body. “I wish I could feel like this all the time. That’s bad.”

“You’re lucky you’re a happy drunk,” Daryl said.

“Yeah, I’m lucky. Some people can be real jerks when they drink,” she teased.

“Yeah. I’m a dick,” he stabbed the knife into the post in front of him, “when I’m drunk.”

He looked at Beth. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were sad. He dropped his gaze and his smile faltered.

“Merle had this dealer,” he said suddenly, “this janky little white guy. Tweaker. One day we were over at his house watching TV.”

Daryl looked up at Beth momentarily, and she nodded to show she was listening.

“Wasn’t even noon yet,” he continued, “and we were all wasted. Merle was high. We were watching this show and Merle was talking all this dumb stuff about it. And he wouldn’t let up. Merle never could.”

He paused for a moment, seemingly bracing himself, then went on.

“Turns out,” he said, looking up at Beth again, “it was the tweaker’s kid’s favorite show. And he never sees his kid, so he felt guilty about it or something. So he punches Merle in the face. So I started hitting the tweaker, like, hard, hard as I can.” 

Daryl mimed absentmindedly, punching the air. 

“Then he pulls a gun, sticks it right here—” he pointed to his temple, his thumb and index finger in the shape of a gun. “He says, ‘I’m gonna kill you, bitch’.”

Daryl leaned his head back against the post and looked up, as though trying to recall the details correctly.

“So Merle pulls his gun on him. Everyone’s yellin’. I’m yellin’.” He paused, and something in his face told Beth that he hadn’t thought about this in a long time. 

“I thought I was dead,” he continued. “Over a dumb cartoon about a talkin’ dog.”

Daryl snorted and looked back down at his knife. Beth watched him twiddle the handle back and forth for a few moments, then she spoke.

“How’d you get out of it?”

Daryl glanced up at her briefly, then back at his knife.

“Tweaker punched me in the gut. I puked. They both started laughin’. Forgot all about it.”

He snorted again, still watching the knife. Then he looked up suddenly.

“You wanna know where I was before all this?”

She nodded again.

“I was just driftin’ around with Merle... doin’ whatever he said we were gonna be doin’ that day. I was nobody. Nothin’. Some redneck asshole and an even bigger asshole for a brother.”

He held the knife still finally and looked out towards the trees in the darkness.

“You miss him, don’t you,” she asked.

Daryl looked up at the sound of her voice, then shrugged and turned away again.

“I miss Maggie,” she added, taking up the reigns of the conversation. “I miss her bossin’ me around. I miss my big brother Shawn; he was so annoyin’ and over-protective. And my dad.”

Her chest tightened, but she fought against the threat of tears. When she was certain her voice wouldn’t break, she continued.

“I thought— I hoped he’d just live the rest of his life in peace, you know? I thought Maggie and Glenn would have a baby. He’d get to be a grandpa. And we’d have birthdays and holidays and summer picnics. And he’d get really old. And it’d happen, but it’d be quiet. It’d be okay. He’d be surrounded by people he loved.”

Tears sprang up in her eyes and she looked up, trying to keep them from rolling down her cheeks. She laughed to try and cover up the tears, but her breath came out in a kind of stifled whimper.

“That’s how unbelievably _stupid_ I am,” she said, her voice breaking finally. She smiled, embarrassed, then looked down at her side to see a mason jar filled with moonshine sitting a few feet away from her. She reached and picked it up, unscrewed the lid, and downed a gulp.

“That’s how it was s’posed to be,” Daryl offered.

“I wish I could just... change.” She stared at the porch roof above her, inwardly cursing her weakness, her tears.

“You did,” Daryl assured her.

Beth looked at him.

“Not enough. Not like you. It’s like you were made for how things are now.”

“I’m just used to this,” he countered, “things bein’ ugly. Growin’ up in a place like this.” He inclined his head toward the trailer beside them.

“But you got away from it,” Beth added.

“I didn’t,” Daryl shrugged.

“You _did_.”

“Maybe you gotta keep on remindin’ me sometimes,” Daryl looked into Beth’s eyes.

“No,” Beth said. “You can’t depend on anybody for anythin’, right?”

Daryl snorted amicably at the use of his own words against him. He resumed twiddling the knife handle. After a few moments of silence, Beth spoke again.

“I’ll be gone someday.”

“Stop,” Daryl said immediately.

“I will,” Beth continued. “You’re gonna be the last man standin’.”

Daryl frowned at her.

“You are,” she reiterated. She stared at him and smiled. “You’re gonna miss me so bad when I’m gone, Daryl Dixon.” After a moment, her smiled faltered, and they just stared at each other in the darkness.

“You ain’t a happy drunk at all,” Daryl said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, I’m happy,” Beth corrected him, “I’m just not blind.”

She looked around her, at the mason jar at her side, at the dilapidated trailer next to them. Then she looked up at Daryl.

“You gotta stay who you are,” she implored him. “not who you were. Places like this... you have to put it away.”

“What if you can’t?” Daryl asked, glancing out towards the trees, then back at Beth. He seemed like a child, longing for the reassurance he must never have found at home.

“You have to,” Beth explained. “Or it kills you. Here.” She held a hand to her heart. Then she smiled at him.

“We should go inside,” Daryl insisted, looking out into the darkness. 

Beth smiled wider as an idea struck her.

“We should burn it down,” she suggested brightly. Her smile stretched wider as she appreciated more and more the fresh start she could see before them.

Daryl got to his feet, grabbing the half filled mason jar at Beth’s feet as he righted himself. He crossed the little porch, then stood facing the door. After a moment, he turned to Beth. Her smile wavered as he stared at her.

“We’re gonna need more booze,” he said simply. Then the corners of his mouth lifted slightly, and he walked back inside.

Beth smiled her widest smile yet as she got to her feet and followed Daryl inside the trailer. He was at the kitchen table, unscrewing the lid from one of the larger bottles of moonshine. As she reached the table herself to grab one of the bottles, Daryl started tossing the liquid from the bottle, covering everything in sight with moonshine.

They emptied it all, every bottle. The entire inside of the trailer was covered, and they spread some over the porch as well. When it was all gone, they walked down the steps of the porch and stood at the edge of the little clearing, looking at the shack.

“You wanna?” Daryl asked, offering Beth a matchbook he had extracted from his satchel.

“Hell yeah,” Beth answered, taking the matchbook from his outstretched hand. 

As she struck a match, Daryl lifted one of the stacks of money he had taken from the country club and held it up so Beth could light it. When the flame had spread over half the stack of bills, Daryl took a few steps toward the shack and lobbed it onto the porch.

They turned and started to walk away when Daryl stopped and grabbed up one last jar of moonshine that had been sitting outside on the ground. He turned and wailed it at the fire which now engulfed the entire porch. They took a few more steps away as the flames spread wider and grew hotter.

Beth suddenly turned around and stopped to watch the shack burn. She lifted her middle finger to the flames. Daryl, standing beside her, seemed transfixed by the blaze; Beth nudged him, and he looked at her, startled. Then he caught on and lifted his own middle finger up to the shack.

It wasn’t long before they saw a few walkers stumbling towards the shack from the trees, apparently attracted by the immense light of the blazing trailer.

Daryl put his hand at the small of Beth’s back and guided her forward, away from the clearing with the moonshine shack, and they pressed on through the trees into the night.


	8. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was a man; she was a woman—it doesn’t get much simpler than that, he thought. He knew he wanted to fuck her. He would have written it off as basic human instinct, but there still seemed to be more to it. Like the way he felt when she would take his hand in hers. He definitely felt something then that he didn’t remember ever feeling before...
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter has portions from both **Daryl's POV** and **Beth's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

The blaze of the burning shack behind them momentarily lit their way as they walked through the trees. As the last of the light was beginning to fade, Beth reached out and took Daryl’s hand in hers. Her stomach did a backflip at the touch of his hand, rough and strong and powerful. His fingers twitched slightly in her grip.

“Shouldn’t risk getting separated in the dark,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.

He gave no acknowledgement. He was so strong, but his hand was hanging loosely in Beth’s grasp, as though waiting to pull it free of hers at the first chance. Even amidst Daryl’s obvious disquiet with hand-holding though, she felt safer with her hand in his.

They arrived eventually to a stretch of road illuminated by moonlight. As they stepped out of the trees, Daryl shrugged his hand out of Beth’s.

“We can see now,” he said.

He looked down at his feet momentarily, avoiding her eyes, then looked up and down the road they had just come upon.

“Up there,” he whispered, pointing up the road to their left. About twenty yards away was a small freight truck parked on the side of the road, facing away from them.

After checking the cab and the freight area, Daryl spun slowly, scanning their surroundings for any sign of a threat. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to the open freight compartment, hoisted himself up inside, turned around and offered Beth his hand.

She grabbed on and he pulled her up into the cargo hold. As she hitched up her blue jeans that had sagged slightly with the effort of getting into the truck, she heard the freight door being closed behind her and everything fell into shadow. Turning back around, she could just make out in the last sliver of moonlight that Daryl was lying on his side; he had left about an inch between the door and truck bed, and he seemed to be manufacturing a makeshift tie similar to the one he had made in the trunk of the car they had been forced to hide in the night before.

“Well, here we are again,” Beth laughed.

“It’s not so bad,” Daryl said, finishing the tie and getting to his feet again. “More room in here, at least.”

Beth suddenly recalled only too clearly the previous night in the cramped trunk, then she envisioned the walkers that had started to gather at the moonshine shack, drawn to the flames.

“Do you think they could have followed us?” she whispered, suddenly tense. She absentmindedly gripped the knife handle at her belt as her eyes darted to the bottom of the door.

An eternity of a moment passed in which she imagined being trapped once again by a swarm of undead. When Daryl finally whispered, “We’ll stay quiet,” she gave a tiny startled jump, making the truck rattle noisily.

 _Off to a good start_ , she chastised herself. But there seemed to be no damage done. No walkers approached the truck, or at least none that they could hear.

As per Daryl’s edict of silence, they didn’t talk to one another but quietly took seats on the floor in the corner, their backs against adjacent walls. Her eyes had adjusted slightly to the darkness now, aided by the faint crevice of moonlight at the opposite end of the truck. As the minutes creeped by, she knew that he was listening as she was, alert to any sound that might approach their hideout.

After a while, the buzz of fearful alertness had worn off, and she turned to Daryl. His eyes were trained on the entrance to the truck bed but he looked worn out. At this, she became aware of how exhausted she was herself.

“Maybe we should try and sleep,” she whispered.

“You go ahead,” he mumbled, his eyes still fixed on the door. 

After a pause, she sighed, “We both need sleep, Daryl.”

He gave no response, continuing to stare at the inch of moonlight at the foot of the door. She sat for a few more minutes in silence, then decided to try talking to him if he wasn’t going to sleep.

“Daryl?” she whispered.

After a long pause, he finally murmured, “What?”

“I want to learn to hunt. I want you to teach me.”

She looked down at her knees, avoiding his gaze.

“Yeah,” he said, to her surprise. “Yeah, I’ll teach ya.”

Something soft brushed against Beth’s forearm and she turned to see Daryl extending a blanket to her; it and an old road map were the only things they found in the cab of the truck.

“You take it,” he said.

“We could share...” she offered tentatively. It was an innocent suggestion... wasn’t it?

Daryl didn’t look at her, and suddenly she was glad that he was avoiding her eyes. What was she thinking? 

“I’ll be okay,” he said after a slightly uncomfortable pause. “Get some sleep.”

Recovering quickly from her moment of mild embarrassment, Beth bunched the blanket up under her head. As she lowered herself to lay down facing away from him, she let her shirt ride up along her waist, not bothering to cover her exposed midriff. She wasn’t sure why she did it. Maybe it was because she was remembering the other time she had caught him staring at her and how much she had liked it. Maybe it was because she was secretly craving some release from everything and she was making him pay for denying her that. All she knew for sure was that she liked the idea of Daryl Dixon not being able to take his eyes off of her body.

* * *

Dim sunlight was pouring through the bottom of the truck door when Daryl awoke. He vaguely registered the faint aching in his groin. He wouldn’t have been surprised if he had spent the entire night as hard as he was now, between the sinful thoughts that had kept him awake as he had stared at a sleeping and vulnerable Beth and the dreams of her that had followed when he had finally found sleep himself.

He wondered if he shouldn’t have just shared the blanket with her and gotten it over with, finally taking what he’d been yearning for for so long, even since before the world had gone to shit, before he’d ever met Beth. But the thought passed as quickly as it had come. Her offer had been an innocent one, as she was innocent.

But still he wondered if she had been toying with him. Surely she had just been tired and hadn’t noticed it, it was such a small thing; but the moment she had lain down, Daryl’s eyes had found her in the faint moonlight, latched onto the naked curve of her hip. He had stared at her body, imagining how it might feel to hold her there, to touch any part of her body, her naked body...

How long he had sat there looking at her and fantasizing, he didn’t know, but eventually he had forced himself to look away and try to think about something else. He had grabbed the bulge at his crotch irritably, the urge to give in to his own undoing steadily increasing, but somehow he had managed to withstand the torturous longing. When he had finally fallen asleep, his subconscious mind had only reiterated his growing desire for the woman lying only two feet from him in the dark.

It was a desire that he didn’t understand. Of course, some parts he understood. He was a man; she was a woman—it doesn’t get much simpler than that, he thought. He knew he wanted to fuck her. He would have written it off as basic human instinct, but there still seemed to be more to it. Like the way he felt when she would take his hand in hers. He definitely felt something then that he didn’t remember ever feeling before. Some deep part of him knew that he enjoyed it, knew that it felt safe. But something closer to the surface told him that kind of stuff was for pussies, that he needed to keep his head on straight if he intended to survive.

Not wanting to stay in his thoughts any longer, he grabbed Beth’s shoulder and shook her lightly. Her eyes flew open and her hand flew to her hip.

“It’s beside you,” he said, assuming she was reaching for her knife.

She wiped her forehead and rubbed her eyes as she sat up and looked around. “You scared me,” she breathed.

“Sorry,” he said, realizing he didn’t sound sorry at all. “Uh,” he tried to make his voice sound a little lighter, “I’m gonna go take a piss and then we’ll get movin’.”

He grabbed his crossbow, stood up and strode to the edge of the truck, then got back down on one knee setting the bow down beside him as he did so and rested a hand on the latch he had made, listening. He waited for about a minute, then, not hearing anything noteworthy, undid the tie and opened the door.

It wasn’t a particularly bright morning, but the sudden burst of light after hours of darkness still seemed blinding. He hopped to the ground and pulled his crossbow to the edge of the truck. Before he turned to walk away, he saw Beth hop up and approach the edge as well. He figured he ought to help her down, so he extended a hand to her as she reached him. She took his hand and thanked him as she landed on the ground next to him.

After they had both relieved themselves—Beth went behind a tree to do her business while Daryl stood by the truck and finished his—they gathered up the black satchel and their weapons and recommenced their journey.

They followed the road for about another mile, staying close to the treeline. Just before they were about to turn into the woods, they came across an abandoned car around a bend and stopped to loot it for valuables.

“It’s not really looting, anymore, is it?” Beth wondered aloud when Daryl suggested it.

“Call it what you want. We need it. No one’s here to claim it. It’s ours. That’s how it works anymore.”

Beth didn’t reply, but furrowed her brow slightly, apparently considering his words.

There wasn’t much in the car. Of the few articles of clothing they found strewn across the back seat, Beth kept an old grey sweater and Daryl kept a flannel button-up shirt and a black denim jacket, both of which he wore beneath his vest. It wasn’t yet seasonally cold, but there was a slight chill on the morning air, making their find a fortunate one. 

They moved on, making their way into the trees. They didn’t go far before he began to see telltale signs that something had been nearby recently. He would have put money on it being a walker, if he’d had any. He stopped, loaded his bow, showed Beth how to hold it, and said, “Alright. Start trackin’.”

She took the lead, bow raised and ready. They walked on for a few minutes. Daryl figured she might have been a lucky guesser, but he liked to think she was better at this than he had anticipated.

“Are we close?” she asked as the trees began to thin, indicating they were likely approaching the forest’s edge.

“Almost done.”

“How do you know?”

“The signs are all there,” he explained. “You just gotta know how to read ‘em.”

“What are we trackin’?”

“You tell me.”

She lowered the bow and turned to glare at him.

“You’re the one that wanted to learn,” he shrugged.

She looked down at the ground.

“Well,” she began, surveying the scene, “somethin’ came through here... The pattern’s all zig-zaggy...” Her face brightened as she arrived at a conclusion. “It’s a walker!”

“Maybe it’s a drunk.” He knew she was likely right, but he still wanted to consider every possibility. And maybe to tease her a little.

“I’m gettin’ good at this,” she said with a grin. She hitched the bow back up into place. “Pretty soon I won’t need you at all.”

“Yeah,” he smirked. “Keep on trackin’.”

Beth led them through the trees to a circular clearing, at the center of which was a walker kneeling on the ground facing away from them, audibly gnawing on something.

Just as Daryl registered its tattered police uniform and hip holster, she turned to him and whispered somewhat warily, “It’s got a gun.” He nodded, indicating she should keep going.

She turned back to face the clearing and crept toward the preoccupied walker, crossbow raised, her eyes fixed on the target. He was just thinking to himself how well she was doing when _CLANG!_ With a pained cry, Beth crumpled to the ground as the walker turned around, hungrily eyeing the fresh meat struggling on the ground behind it. A rusty snare, hidden by the leaves, had clamped over her left ankle. She was gasping in pain but managed to keep her hold on the crossbow, laboring to take aim.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Daryl raced forward to aid her, fearing he wouldn’t reach her in time. Before he had spanned half the distance between them, Beth loosed a bolt, catching the walker through the jaw but missing the brain. It reeled from the impact momentarily, then advanced on her once more. Just as it was about to descend upon her, Daryl snatched the bow from her outstretched hands and drew it across the creature’s skull in a crushing blow. 

Immediately he dove to the ground in a home-run slide at Beth’s foot and hurriedly released her from the snare. Beth grabbed her ankle, wincing.

“Can you move it?”

She stretched her foot slowly and cautiously while Daryl gingerly examined her ankle.

“...Yeah.”

Daryl looked around the clearing, his thoughts racing. He could try and find some wood for a splint... _No_ , he amended; upon further inspection, it didn’t look like anything had broken. He would have to help her walk, and that wasn’t a sustainable method of transportation. They would need to find shelter, fast.

He hopped to his feet and offered her his hands.

“Come on.”

She grabbed on with both hands and he lifted her to her feet. Keeping one arm around her so she could steady herself, he suggested that she try to put weight on it, test how bad it was. He let his arm fall away from her so she could stand on her own. She slowly shifted her weight to her left foot taking a step forward, then gasped, leaning back onto her right foot.

“Bad?” Daryl asked, feeling more anxious by the second. 

“I think...” she began, then gave the injured foot one more test, grimacing as though holding in a yelp, “I think I can walk. Just not fast.”

“Alright,” he said determinedly, “let’s go.” He put his arm around her waist and she wrapped hers around his neck. Already he could tell this was going to be uncomfortably difficult, holding his crossbow in one hand and supporting Beth with the other, but he kept it to himself and they pressed on in search of shelter.

“That was a good shot,” he laughed, the thought occurring to him suddenly. Even if it hadn’t killed the thing, a headshot is no rookie accomplishment.

“Not good enough.”

“Naw. It was good, just unlucky. Wouldn’t have expected you to hit it at all, let alone in the head.” He paused, then said, if somewhat for her benefit, “I think you might be a natural.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her give a wispy little smile, but it faded quickly, presumably at the pain piercing her with every other step.

They couldn’t have gotten far, but they had walked for about fifteen minutes before they came out of the trees upon a cemetery in the center of a field. Trees lined the outskirts of the field, about a half-mile circumference around. At the end of a medium-sized group of headstones stood a house that must have served as a funeral home given its proximity to the graves.

Beth suddenly stopped and shrugged out of Daryl’s one-armed embrace and bent at the hip to rub her ankle.

“Can we... can we hold up a sec?” she pleaded.

“You alright?” He eyed her warily.

“I just need to sit down.” She lifted her left leg and stretched her ankle, testing her weight against it and seeming to find herself disappointed.

“Alright,” he sighed, glancing across the graves at the funeral home. “Hold up.” He slung his crossbow around him so that the bow was in front of him, the strap across his back. He bent at the knee in front of Beth and held his arms out.

“Hop on,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Are you serious?”

He turned to glance at her, then resumed the position. “Yeah, it’s a serious piggy-back. Jump up.”

After a second’s hesitation, he felt her place her hands on his shoulders and hop up onto his back. He exhaled heavily under the weight, then hoisted her up higher to get a better grip on her thighs under her knees.

“You’re heavier than you look,” he teased.

She didn’t reply, but he thought he might have heard the faintest of giggles.

“Maybe there are people there,” she said suddenly. He looked up towards the house—he had been staring at his feet, not wanting to trip while carrying her.

“Yeah... if there are,” he said, pausing after every few words to catch his breath, “I’ll handle ‘em.”

“There are still good people, Daryl,” she chided.

“I don’t think the good ones survive.”

Beth suddenly slid off his back. He turned to see why and saw that she was staring at a headstone.

    NOV 12TH 1837
    DEC 10TH 1874
    BELOVED FATHER

He didn’t know what she was thinking, but he had an idea. Because he was suddenly thinking about all of it. The Governor’s attack on the prison. Michonne’s stolen sword swishing through the air, hacking mercilessly into Hershel’s neck. How they couldn’t save him. How they couldn’t even stop to find his body, to bury him. To do it right. The pain he felt to think of any of it.

How much more pain she must be feeling...

She wasn’t crying, nor did she look exactly sad; contemplative, maybe. As he recognized that she was not going to cry, he realized that he wouldn’t have minded if she did.

He glanced around, saw some flowers growing a few feet behind him—weeds, really, but he knew somehow that neither Hershel nor Beth would have minded—and yanked them out of the ground. He reached forward and placed them on top of the headstone, then stood next to Beth.

As he sidled up beside her, he felt her fingers graze the back of his hand then gently pry their way into his grip. He didn’t resist it. He wriggled his fingers and allowed hers to lock into place with his own. They stood staring at the headstone, grieving together for the first time all they had lost.


	9. At the Funeral Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even with her ankle wrapped she still couldn’t put much weight on it. She was going to have to stay off of it for the next few days, at least. As he pondered, he knew they wouldn’t be able to move on until she was able to walk (and more importantly, run) on her own. That could take weeks. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay here that long, to give whoever was living here the opportunity to sneak up on them. But he couldn’t yet see an alternative.
> 
> ✨
> 
> This chapter is written from **Daryl's POV**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Disclaimer** : Throughout the story (until things blatantly switch to AU) much of the dialogue and events come straight from AMC's TV show _The Walking Dead_ and I do not own said content in any sense. The only parts of this work for which I will claim credit is the imaginative description and retelling of the events of the episodes and the Alternative Universe perspectives and descriptions that follow. This is a work of fanfiction meant only to be enjoyed by readers of the AO3 community and is not meant to gain any kind of profit or artistic recognition for anything owned by AMC or their partners from _The Walking Dead_.

“Come on,” Daryl said after several long minutes of silence in front of the grave. “We should get inside.”

He bent at the knee, inviting Beth once more onto his back. She hopped up, he hitched her into place, and they continued toward the funeral home. As they got nearer, they could see that wooden planks had been nailed across the large windows on the ground floor. There would be no getting in that way.

“Looks secure,” Beth said brightly.

Daryl hummed his agreement. They rounded to the right and came upon a porch with a balcony that was held up by large white pillars. The lower-floor windows on this side were boarded up in the same fashion, apparently impenetrable. The door in the center of the porch looked like it had once been a simple screen door but now had thick planks of wood reinforcing it. He straightened up and Beth slid off of his back. He shimmied his crossbow off of his chest up over his head and turned to her.

“Me first,” he said, readying his bow. She nodded.

They ascended the few steps and crossed the porch to the boarded-up door. He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open; it swung slowly open, squealing faintly before it rested in place, fully ajar. After slamming his palm against the door frame three times, he whistled. Beth made to step forward through the entryway, but Daryl held out an arm across her chest.

“Give it a minute,” he cautioned.

There was no sound of movement from within, but he knew that didn’t necessarily mean they were home-free yet. Crossbow raised, he entered the house. Directly in front of him at the other end of the lobby was a split staircase, ascending to the left and descending to the right.

He heard Beth close the door behind him. Peering all around, he could see that the place was spotless, well-kept. Someone was clearly living here.

As though in response to his thoughts, Beth said, “It’s so clean.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, continuing to peer around the immaculate house. “Someone’s been tendin’ to it. May still be around.”

A room immediately to the right of the open door held only an empty casket, a piano, and several rows of wooden chairs facing the casket. He passed it and peeked inside a second room on the right and found an empty waiting area filled with cushy sofa chairs and couches; he noticed that a doorway linked it and the first room. He crossed the landing to the room opposite it. A casket stood against the far wall. There was a body lying in it.

Daryl navigated through the chairs—these ones were stiff and wooden like those in the first room, only for temporary use while waiting to pay respects—and stood before the casket. There was no telling how long the man inside had been dead as his face had been caked with makeup. Curiosity getting the better of him, he scraped his fingers across the man’s cheek revealing gray, rotted flesh underneath. Had it been a walker? He turned to look at Beth as he felt her sidle up next to him. She stared at the goop on his fingers, then looked at Daryl somewhat quizzically.

“Come on,” he suggested. “Let’s keep lookin’.”

Daryl led Beth down the staircase on the right. About six steps down, the staircase made a 180-degree turn at a landing. He rounded the corner with his bow raised, then saw about half-a-dozen more descending stairs. When he realized that what he saw at the bottom of the stairs was yet another two dead bodies lying quite still on separate metal surgical tables, he lowered his bow and continued into the basement.

Glancing only momentarily at the bodies, he placed his crossbow on a white metal bin that was sitting on the floor and began searching through several metal cabinets that hung on the wall opposite the surgical tables. Inside the first one, among other various items, were a few clear plastic packages containing rolls of white cloth (presumably for some kind of embalming technique, but as he was not a mortician, he wasn’t sure). Next to the them was a roll of cloth adhesive. Jackpot.

“Let’s get that ankle wrapped.”

He bit into the plastic packaging and tore it open, walking absentmindedly across the room as he did so. He turned and found himself at the head of the surgical tables. Beth was staring at the bodies, both men. They were dressed in suits like the one upstairs, but these had not been completely restored. One of them had its face half covered in the pasty flesh-colored makeup while the other half had been left gray and deformed, unmistakably dead. The other body hadn’t been worked on at all, leaving Daryl in no doubt that likely every one of the bodies they had come across in this building were dead walkers that had been made to look like humans.

“Looks like someone ran outta dolls to dress up,” he quipped.

Beth looked up suddenly. “It’s beautiful.”

He stared at her, perplexed, then looked back at the walkers. He was having a hard time seeing how anyone, even Beth, could say these things were beautiful. He looked back at Beth and saw that she was again observing the dead walkers.

“Whoever did this... cared. They wanted these people to get a funeral. They remembered these things _were_ people, before all this. They didn’t let it change them in the end.”

Daryl hung his head considering what she had said. Before he had time to think too much about it though, she spoke again.

“Don’t you think that’s beautiful?”

He looked up to see her staring imploringly at him. They stood staring at one another for a moment, then Daryl became aware of the cloth and tape he was still holding in his hands.

“Come on,” he said, glad for a reprieve from the subject and walked back around the tables to meet Beth on the other side. He grabbed her arm gently and directed her backwards and she leaned against the metal bin upon which Daryl had set his crossbow. He crouched in front of her and set to work.

“This hurt?” he asked as he shimmied the boot off of her foot.

“No,” she winced. “I mean, not anymore than it already does on its own.”

He grunted and continued working. It wasn’t long before he was finished.

“How’s that feel?”

She tested her weight on it, grimacing slightly. “Better. But it still hurts.”

“Yeah, well, it’s gonna, next couple ‘a days.”

Helping Beth up the stairs was slow, tedious work, as he had known it would be. Even with her ankle wrapped she still couldn’t put much weight on it. She was going to have to stay off of it for the next few days, at least. As he pondered, he knew they wouldn’t be able to move on until she was able to walk (and more importantly, run) on her own. That could take weeks. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to stay here that long, to give whoever was living here the opportunity to sneak up on them. But he couldn’t yet see an alternative.

When they finally reached the top, Daryl asked Beth to stay in one of the few rooms they had already cleared near the landing while he searched the rest of the house. He expected her to protest, but she merely nodded and headed into the waiting room with the plush chairs. He was glad it hadn’t turned into an argument.

Upstairs was a bedroom, a bathroom, and a room that contained a desk, some bookshelves, and a cushy-looking chair. Both the bedroom and the room with the desk had doors that led out to the balcony. _Always good to have an escape route_.

Daryl descended the stairs to search the remainder of the lower floor of the house. He went back through the room containing the first dead walker in the coffin and continued through a doorway that linked the room to a hallway. The hallway led to a kitchen, another waiting-area room, and a back door. Daryl cleared the kitchen and waiting room first, then tried the back door—it didn’t open. That could be good for keeping the walkers out, as long as it was truly secure. He made a mental note to check it from the outside just to be sure.

Finally satisfied that nothing sinister dwelled within the house, he journeyed back to the foyer where he’d left Beth waiting. She had gone into the room with the sofa chairs and was looking at some pictures in frames that had been arranged about the room on this table or that. She didn’t seem to have heard him come in behind her. He cleared his throat unceremoniously and she gave a little jump, whipping around and grabbing at the knife on her belt.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “House is clear.”

She gave a weary smile. “You as hungry as I am?”

“More,” he said. She smirked. He smiled in spite of himself. “Come on.”

Once in the kitchen, they began searching. Daryl saw Beth go for the refrigerator, himself choosing to start with the cabinets. He heard her curse under her breath and shut the fridge doors. 

“You find anything?” she asked.

Just as he was about to answer no, he opened the next set of cabinet doors. Beth uttered an impressed “ _whoa_ ” and sidled up next to Daryl, staring up into the cabinet. It was fully stocked top to bottom with a variety of items. 

“Peanut butter’n jelly, diet soda, and pigs feet,” Daryl said, reaching for the corresponding items on the top shelf. “That’s a white trash brunch right there.”

“It all looks good to me,” she murmured, hastily grabbing a few items herself.

“Now, hold up,” he said, taking a step back. “Ain’t a speck o’dust on this.”

Beth glanced at him, then back at the food. “So?”

“Means someone just put it here. This is someone’s stash. Maybe they’re still alive.” He paused, uncertain if what he was about to suggest was the right thing to do. “Alright. We’ll take some of it and we’ll leave the rest, alright?” 

“I knew it,” Beth smiled.

“Knew what?” He stared at her, puzzled, and unscrewed the lid of the jelly jar.

Her smile broadened. “It’s like I said; there’s still good people.” She looked into his eyes, and her smile softened, her gaze warm. He stared at her for a moment thinking maybe he should say something; when nothing came to mind, he scooped a hand inside the jar and shoved a handful of jelly into his mouth, sucking on this fingers.

“Ew, gross!” Her eyebrows furrowed and she turned to walk towards the tiny kitchen table.

“Hey,” he said, pointing at the top shelf. “Those pigs feet; they’re mine.”

“You can have ‘em,” she said disdainfully.

“Don’t be stingy, girl,” he teased, pulling a chair out from under the table and sitting himself down. “You don’t try things, you’ll never know what yer missin’.”

She grinned at him. “That’s fine with me. I’ll take p.b. and j. S’long as I don’t hafta use my fingers.”

He suppressed the sudden, inexplicable urge to stick his tongue out at her, then dug his fingers once more into the jelly. Beth rummaged in the drawers behind her for a few moments before returning to the table with a fistful of silverware. 

For the first fifteen minutes or so they ate in silence, fully engrossed in their meal. Neither of them had eaten since the snake he had killed the morning before. Daryl had hoped they would have at least snagged a squirrel or two on their hunt from earlier. The walker attack and Beth’s resulting ankle injury had halted any further hunting they might have done that morning, and for at least the next several days. He could hunt by himself, of course, but he wouldn’t leave her alone until she could get around a little bit more easily on her own.

She had done well, up until she’d stepped on the snare (not that that had been her fault). And even after she had fallen, she had still managed to hit the thing in the head, which was no small feat. He wanted to say something about it to encourage her, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words; chit-chat didn’t come natural to him. He decided to get right to the facts.

“We’ll stay for another couple ‘a days. When you can get around a little better, we’ll get movin’.”

“Why can’t we stay?” She frowned, looking almost confused.

“I just said we would.”

“No, I mean, why don’t we just... _stay_? Like, live here for a while.”

He didn’t answer, but got up from the table and grabbed his crossbow.

“I’m gonna go outside, make sure nothin’ can get in,” he said, and left her staring after him with a puzzled look on her face.

Why didn’t he want to stay? His instinct was telling him it was because they didn’t know if the previous inhabitants were still alive or if they were friendly. But if he was honest with himself, he knew there was more to it than that. He was afraid of what would happen if the two of them were isolated for too long. It seemed that as long as they were on the move and searching for the rest of their group, their time together was somehow more innocent; he was anxious to get back on the road before he let himself lose control like he had at the still in the woods. 

He brooded as he worked, checking all the reinforced windows on the ground floor, then stringing a garland of walker chimes across the front porch. It didn’t take him long. There wasn’t much else to be done; the previous inhabitant had made sure the place was impenetrable. He wondered if he would get a chance to thank them, but he quickly dismissed the foolish thought.

A faint rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. He looked up and saw that the sky was darkening quickly, though it couldn’t be late afternoon yet. Rain was coming, and it looked like it might turn to a storm.

He stepped over the walker chimes and crossed the porch. As he opened the door, he heard a light, soft harmony coming from the piano in the first room on the right. He was a few steps down the dark hallway before he realized he was stepping slowly and softly so as not to scare Beth. Just as he reached the door frame and was about to enter the room, she began singing. Her voice was sweet and carefree, as though the world was right and good and none of the things he knew it to be.

_It’s unclear now what we intend_  
_We’re alone in our own world_  
_And you don’t wanna be my boyfriend_  
_And I don’t wanna be your girl_

He became aware that he had stopped and was leaning against the wall, listening. Coming to his senses, he rounded the corner and stepped through the door, still taking care to step quietly. The room was surprisingly dark with the windows boarded and curtains closed, and candles were lit all around on tables and on the piano. 

_And that, that’s a relief_  
_We’ll drink up our grief and pine for summer_

He stood in the door frame, watching her as she played and sang, and for a moment his heart was light— perhaps not as carefree as she was, but still lighter than he could ever remember feeling, if only for a moment.

_And we’ll buy a beer to shotgun_  
_We’ll lay in the lawn_  
_And we’ll be good_

She stopped singing but continued to play. Daryl cleared his throat; he didn’t want to scare her, but he didn’t know how else to make his presence known. Beth stumbled over the last few notes and whipped around. Her face relaxed as she realized there was no danger and she swiveled all the way around on the bench to face him.

“Place is nailed up tight,” he murmured. He slung his crossbow off of his shoulder and set it on a loveseat, then made his way over to the open and empty casket. “Only way in’s through the front door.” Deciding that the casket was as good a place as any to lie down, he hopped up inside it.

“What are you doin’?” 

He sighed, wriggling into place. “This is the comfiest bed I’ve had in _years_.”

“Really?” she said skeptically.

“I ain’t kiddin’.” He saw a glimpse in his mind’s eye of his old bedroom he had shared with Merle; he pushed it from his mind. He adjusted his body in the coffin, positioning himself so that he could still look at her. She was looking down at her feet now.

“Why don’t you go ahead, play some more, keep singin’.” It would be a pleasant distraction to hear her singing again in her sweet voice.

“I thought my singin’ annoyed you.”

Another flash of memory burst into his mind; drunk and furious, bellowing at the top of his lungs, berating Beth for her cheerfulness, mocking her. With a twinge of guilt he adjusted once more, looking up at the ceiling for an excuse to look away from her, even if only momentarily. “There ain’t no jukebox, so...” 

He looked at her once more and saw that there was just a hint of a smile playing on her lips before she swiveled back around and faced the piano.

_And we’ll buy a beer to shotgun_  
_We’ll lay in the lawn_  
_And we’ll be good_

She continued singing her song from where she had left off. As he lay listening, thoughts floated groggily into his awareness. Maybe they could stay for a while; maybe they could be good here. She seemed to be happy here, he reasoned.

Daryl vaguely registered a light rain beginning to patter on the window. He was drifting into unconsciousness, aided by the warm glow of the candles in the dark room and Beth’s lullaby.

Maybe he could let himself be happy here, too, he thought. Maybe he could let himself be happy with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I have to apologize to my readers. I know it's taken me _way_ too long to publish this chapter. I've begun working on Chapter 10! More Bethyl coming soon!
> 
> As always, if there are any questions, comments, suggestions, or any other messages you want to send my way, please feel free!


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